That Which Ties Us Together
by friedcherryblossoms
Summary: Hermione was perfectly content to go through life pretending that everything was fine and that she was happy with what she had. That is, until the murders of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy drew her back into the world she thought she'd left behind and elicited emotions she'd rather keep buried. At least this time she had some company. Dramione
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all,**

 **Thought I'd take a moment to introduce myself and this story. I'm Cherry and I love the universe Rowling has so kindly gifted the world. That being said, I don't think I'm quite ready to let go of it all, so I've decided to try something out. Something that I didn't know I even wanted until rereading some of the earlier books recently.**

 **So this story is most definitely a Dramione fic. There'll be some other pairings as they come naturally, but the intent and focus is on the Hermione/Malfoy pair. The goal is to stay true to the characters, so don't be disappointed if things aren't as quick or straightforward as they could be, and let me know if I'm doing the characters justice/where I could improve.**

 **Two quick notes before beginning: 1) backstory has been pulled both from the books and the movies, and if something is contradictory to either one, then it's intentional, and 2)** **I'm American, so while I did my best to stay true to British spellings and slang, there might be some errors. Feel free to call me out if you see any.**

 **Lastly, please review! I want to know if anyone's interested. And I'm pathetically insecure and like the feedback.**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

 **P.S. There's a little preview of the next chapter at the end of this one. Call it incentive to leave a review ;)**

* * *

If asked about her plans for Christmas Eve, Hermione would have described a mild, pleasant evening in her flat with her fiancé. Never would she have said the night would be interrupted by an emergency call from the Ministry, requiring Ron's presence.

"I'll come with you." She spoke, standing from the table.

"No, don't waste your time. It's probably nothing." Ron shrugged on his coat, Hermione meeting him at the fireplace.

"Right. Well be safe." Hermione adjusted the lapels of his peacoat, something she often did when she was nervous. She didn't like that Ron had chosen to be an Auror. She understood it, of course, she had almost done it herself, but after the war, after all that she had seen...she didn't like the work Ron had signed up for.

"Always am." He offered her a crooked smile, recognizing her behavior, and Hermione reciprocated, though hers was straighter and less enthusiastic. "I'll see you at the Burrow in the morning, yeah?"

Hermione nodded silently, receiving a quick peck on the lips before Ron stepped into the hearth, disappearing in a burst of green flames. She exhaled deeply as she returned to the dinner table, which had been set for two with the nicest china she owned; one of the few items she had been able to retrieve from her parents' home before the estate was auctioned off. She didn't like to think of them, believing their deaths to be on her conscience even after all this time, but nonetheless, she tried to pay homage to them when she could, even if it only meant making use of their dishes once a year.

Hermione cleared the table and slowly washed the dishes, letting the familiar task absorb her time. Ron had commented once on the way she insisted on washing dishes by hand, but she argued that he would understand if he'd grown up like her. Some things felt natural compared to the magic equivalent of waving a wand and having the work done for you.

When the dishes were cleaned, dried, and back in the cabinet with the rest of the set, she changed from her plain, black dress and flats into a pair of socks, soft leggings and a long sleeved shirt of Ron's he'd insisted he wanted, though he didn't know who the muggle band was the shirt was displaying. Hermione snagged the item from his care one morning, justifying that she looked better in it anyway. Ron didn't argue that point.

She curled onto the sofa with a cup of tea and her patient folders, knowing that while she wouldn't be back at St. Mungo's until after the New Year, the cases needed studying, especially the man who woke up every morning with no memory and a small animal bite on his hand. No one had cracked that case yet, and Hermione intended to be the one to do it.

She was dozing when she heard the loud pop of someone Apparating into her living room, and her hand immediately shot to the wand she kept on her hip, her heart racing. She relaxed infinitesimally when she saw it was only Ron, but her anxiety returned when she saw the blood covering his clothes.

"Ron?" She stood, approaching him quickly, searching for wounds. "What happened? Are you hurt? Who was it?"

"No time to explain, we've got to go." He grabbed her hands and Disapparated, pulling Hermione with him. She tensed at the feeling, never having been a fan of the uncomfortable process. When they landed, it was in the Auror Department at the Ministry of Magic, though the usually relaxed environment had been replaced with tension and the bustle of working Aurors. Hermione followed Ron through the office to where the centre of action seemed to be. She spotted Harry, who looked better than Ron, and went to call out to him, pausing when she saw who he was talking to. Sitting at the chair in Harry's cubicle was none other than Draco Malfoy, covered in more blood than anyone else in the room, hand clutched to his side. She and Ron slowed to a stop in front of the pair, Harry standing to meet them.

"Hermione." Harry greeted, turning to Ron. "Have you told her anything yet?"

"Didn't have the chance." Ron answered. "Are we heading back?"

"Under Whitby's orders." Harry nodded.

"All right." Ron turned to leave with Harry and Hermione stopped him, grabbing him by the sleeve.

"What's going on, Ronald?" She demanded weakly, confused and scared. She didn't like feeling scared.

"Attack on the Malfoys." Ron explained, glancing at the Malfoy behind her. "We have to go back to the scene for cleanup." He gestured to himself and Harry, who was already halfway to the door. "Just fix _him_ up, all right?"

"Oh." Hermione said quietly. "Okay. Take care."

Ron gave her a reassuring pat on her hand before taking off after Harry, trying to catch up. When they were alone, Hermione turned back to Draco, looking him up and down.

"So I'm to clean you up." She looked for confirmation, but Draco only shrugged, his focus on the floor. "Helpful." She mumbled, rolling her eyes. "Well do you think you can move? You're awfully...dirty, and the Ministry doesn't really have a proper setup to get you healed."

"Sure." He wheezed, and she wondered if his lung was punctured. She'd have to check as soon as she got him cleaned up.

"Right. Well come on then." She gestured for him to stand and when he did, it was weak and wobbly. As much as she didn't want to, she stepped under the arm not pressed to his side, and let him displace some of his weight onto her. He nearly collapsed onto her shoulders and Hermione grunted to keep him upright, suspicious that he was milking the injuries he had. Though he was doused in blood, there were few visible wounds, and it wasn't outside of the realm of possibility that Draco Malfoy was being a bit dramatic. In fact, it was highly likely that he was being dramatic.

They had gotten three steps when Draco ran into the wall of a cubicle, cursing under his breath.

"You know, you could make a little effort to make things easier on me, Malfoy. You're not exactly light." Hermione groaned under his weight and height, unsurprised that the once spoilt pure-blood still acted as though he owned half the world.

"Oh brilliant, Granger, why hadn't I considered that? Forgive my indiscretions for having so negatively effected you, I'm only _blind_ but I'll try harder not to inconvenience you." His voice was laden with sarcasm, and at the blind comment, Hermione looked up at his face, noting for the first time that his gaze was indeed not focused on her, or anything else in the room.

"Y-you're blind?" She asked, pausing mid step. "How long have you been blind?"

"Since whoever broke into the manor decided that I shouldn't be privy to the crimes they planned to commit against my parents." Again, the retort was sarcastic. "Or me, for that matter." He adjusted his stance and winced. "Are you planning to stand here all night, or are we going to get me to St. Mungo's?"

"St. Mungo's." Hermione repeated. "Yes." She walked him out to the elevators and when they got to the main floor, they used an empty fireplace to Floo to the hospital, Hermione guiding Draco to an open bed on the fourth floor. She sat him down, handed him a hospital gown, and went off in search of healing supplies. She didn't know the extent of his injuries, but being magically blinded could be cured with a simple Now You See Me potion, so she mixed it up quickly, returning with it and several bottles of cleaning solution and gauze. The rest she could figure out as she went.

Draco was lying in bed in his gown like a good patient when she got back, and with the efficiency of a seasoned healer, she fed him the potion and a tonic to dull the pain, sitting to clean the blood from Draco's skin methodically. When he was satisfactorily clean, she moved his gown enough to see the side he refused to let go of, finally convincing him to move his hand once the pain tonic had begun to work. After cleaning that injury, too, Hermione focused on the cut, which looked shallow, but was turning the skin grey around the affected area. She noted that the skin was dying, and pulled her wand from her waistband, trying several incantations before one finally took, the flesh shifting back to a normal, albeit pale, skin colour. She applied a healing salve to the scrapes and cuts littering his torso around the injury, pulling small bits of glass from some of the wounds. When the largest piece of glass was removed from his abdomen, Hermione looked up to see if Draco was unconscious, since he didn't react to the distinctly unpleasant feeling. His eyes met hers and he smiled dryly.

"Nice to _see_ you, Granger." He drawled lazily, likely a bit high from the pain tonic. "I do say, do you normally work barefoot? I mean, I won't complain, a healer is a healer, but still. Is that sanitary?"

Hermione glanced down, remembering that when Ron pulled her from her flat, she didn't have a chance to change or at least put on shoes, and tucked her feet under her chair.

"I take it you're feeling better." She ignored the jab, covering the larger wounds with gauze and tape before pulling his gown back up to cover his shoulders. "That was a mortuus textus hex you were hit with." She gestured to his side as she wiped off her hands. "Can't say that's a very enjoyable hex to be on the receiving end of."

"What would you know of it?" Draco asked, watching her as she cleaned up the tray she'd brought over. He didn't particularly trust that _the_ Hermione Granger would be treating him as she would any other patient - which he would have completely understood, given their sordid past - but she was quite knowledgeable (about a plethora of subjects) and her treatment thus far was superior even to that which his family healer had provided when he was a child, and that healer had trained in Italy with some of the best. Not that he would ever pay Hermione a compliment for her quick work and gentle touch.

"I read about it once." She explained. "Not very common anymore; it's a rather antiquated curse, but the longer the affected suffers from it, the more likely it is to attack the organs in the area around the hit. Without treatment, it's a slow death." When Draco didn't respond, she continued. "So you're welcome."

He chuckled lightly, as though the motion hurt. It probably did. "Yes, thank you, Granger. I don't know where I would be without your care and consideration. You have my utmost gratitude."

"Arse." She grumbled, having been on the receiving end of Draco's sarcasm far more than once in her life. She gathered everything onto the tray before picking it up and it to the back room, clearing the tray of its contents before tossing it into the dirty pile that needed a proper cleaning before they could be used again. Ignoring Draco as she walked back through the room, Hermione walked to the front desk to let an employee know they had a new patient, and took the necessary forms on a clipboard back to Draco.

"You'll have to fill these out if you plan to stay the night." She explained, glancing at her watch. "And given that it's almost four in the morning and your house is a crime scene, I imagine you'll be staying here at least until dawn." Hermione set the clipboard on the nightstand after filling out her section as healer, dating the paperwork 25 December, sighing when she saw the date. "Happy Christmas to me." She muttered, knowing she had to be up and at the Burrow in only five hours. With the time she had to take showering and getting ready, that only left her three hours of sleep if she Apparated home immediately, and she hated Apparating.

"Do they know I'm here?" Draco asked, interrupting Hermione's mental planning. "The Aurors. I was being interrogated by Potter when you showed up."

"I'll be sure to pass along the message." Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, deducting another half hour of sleep. "Just call for a healer if you need anything." She turned to leave, hearing Draco call for her when she reached the door.

"Granger?"

Hermione turned, sparing Draco a tired look. "Hmm?"

"Happy Christmas." He offered, surprising Hermione. It was the first thing he'd said all night that wasn't sarcastic.

"Happy Christmas, Malfoy." She responded, turning to continue through the doors. She Flooed to the Ministry of Magic to quickly inform someone of Draco's current location, and - on weak legs - finally returned home after five hours she could've spent asleep. She crawled into bed without changing, too tired to remove even her socks, in which she had walked across both government and hospital floors that night, though sleep evaded her. Instead, she lied in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Draco. Where were his parents? Ron and Harry hadn't made any mention of them. Were they fine? Injured? Dead? She supposed it must've been the last, since she hadn't seen them at the Auror Department, and Ron hadn't brought them to her for treatment. She shuddered briefly at the realisation. Terribly enough, she couldn't say she was displeased. She hated the Malfoys. They were cruel, and conniving, and their defection had been a cowardly attempt at avoiding serving time in Azkaban. It had worked, of course, and in return for protection at the end of the war, they offered the locations of many Death Eaters still following in the footsteps of their slain leader, but that didn't change what they had done during the war, both the first and the second.

When Hermione saw the sun rising through her window, she climbed out of bed, dragging herself to the bathroom to shower. She stood under the hot water until it ran cool, finally stepping out and beginning her morning routine. She put on her usual makeup (just mascara and lip balm), and began styling her hair. Her once bushy hair had grown (somewhat) tame, and - save for days when the humidity was high - she no longer needed Sleekeazy's Hair Potion to calm her mane. She pulled back her dried locks into a low bun and headed to her closet, pulling out her undergarments, a thick turtleneck jumper and a pair of wool trousers. She brewed a pot of coffee while she dressed, sliding on a pair of boots before filling her mug. She drank the caffeine like her life depended on it, supplementing the meal with only toast because she knew Mrs. Weasley would have a full English breakfast prepared for her when she got to the Burrow. Not that she didn't love Mrs. Weasley, but a girl could only eat so much, and Hermione's threshold was not nearly at the level Mrs. Weasley expected it to be, and she let Hermione know that. Often.

Filled with the mild energy the coffee brought on, Hermione gathered her gifts for the Weasleys and stepped into the fireplace, Flooing to the Burrow at exactly nine.

When she got there, Hermione was greeted with the expected cacophony of the home's residents, dragging her gifts to the large, lopsided tree across the room.

"Oh Hermione, dear!" Mrs. Weasley greeted, spotting the girl as she made her way down the stairs. "You're here!"

"I am." Hermione confirmed. "Lovely to see you."

"You as well. Come help me in the kitchen, breakfast isn't quite ready."

Hermione followed the jubilant hostess to the kitchen and cooked mushrooms and tomatoes while Mrs. Weasley waved her wand about, commanding the rest of the dishes to do their jobs. Mrs. Weasley disappeared upstairs to find her children and rouse them awake, leaving Hermione to herself. She yawned as she used her wand to flip the tomatoes, her attention slowly fading away the more tired she grew.

"What a sight."

She jumped at the voice, spotting Ron standing in the doorway. She rolled her eyes. "You know me, the pinnacle of housewife material."

Ron laughed and came up behind her, resting his hands loosely on her hips, perching his chin on her shoulder. "It's nice."

" _You're_ nice." Hermione corrected, knowing she wasn't domestic in the slightest bit. She had spent all her energy taking care of Ron and Harry during school.

"I meant it, I promise." He yawned dramatically, cluing Hermione into the fact that he hadn't slept either.

"So what happened?" She asked, washing her hands after charming the cooked food so it would stay warm. "With the Malfoys, I mean."

Ron let out a breath and sat at the kitchen table, resting his head in his hand. "It was a bloodbath, Mione. An absolute bloodbath."

She winced and sat next to him, rubbing her hand across his shoulder comfortingly.

"We got there after whoever had done it had left; Malfoy sent out the distress call. He was locked in his room, stray hexes and shattered mirror covering every surface, and they were in their bedroom. They were tortured, Hermione." He quieted his voice, knowing the talk wasn't for public consumption. "Ripped limb from limb in the end. We still haven't recovered Lucius' left arm."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "The Dark Mark?" She asked, knowing very well where on the body the Mark resided.

Ron nodded silently, both left wondering what it all meant.

"Morning, Hermione." Harry greeted as he walked into the kitchen, looking just as beat as Ron.

"Morning, Harry." Hermione took her hand off Ron's shoulder, greeting her friend. "Long night?"

"Incredibly long." He nodded, making his way to the kettle on the stove. He grimaced at the weak tea, searching the cabinets for coffee. "Ginny's looking for you, by the way." He commented. "Imagine the surprise she'll get when she sees you in the kitchen."

"Ha ha. Very funny." Hermione deadpanned. "I'll go find her, thank you for letting me know." She spared Ron a weak smile and stood, finding Ginny in the den, changing the diaper of her youngest son.

"My, my, he looks more like Harry every day." Hermione pointed out, noting the black hair that seemed to have grown in overnight.

Ginny looked up and grinned, readjusting her son's clothing before picking him up. "I know. I saw myself in James when he was born, but Albus, I don't think there's a trace of Weasley blood in him." The two shared a laugh. "Would you like to hold him? He's nothing like James, you don't have to worry that you'll drop this one." Ginny amended, seeing the look in Hermione's eyes.

"All right then." Hermione stretched her arms out, awkwardly receiving the child.

"Hold his head." Ginny warned, watching Hermione try to balance the baby. She laughed pleasantly, helping her friend position the newborn in her arms, cradling him gently. "You know, Ron's going to be thrilled to see you carrying him." Ginny brushed the hair out of Albus' eyes. "He's more than ready for you two to get married and start popping out your own red headed babies." She razzed Hermione, who laughed uncomfortably. Since the time Ron proposed to her, Harry had proposed to Ginny, the two had gotten married, and they were already on their second child. If things went Ronald's way, Hermione would already be pregnant with at least her third Weasley child. Obviously, she felt differently. The disagreement often led to arguments, Ron frustrated that Hermione wouldn't make the next step in their relationship despite years together already. She always told him it was because her parents hadn't married until they were in their early thirties, and that she needed time to adjust to Ron's world, where his mother were only twenty when she popped out Bill. In reality, Hermione didn't know why she wasn't ready to marry Ron. She loved him, very much so, but something held her back when she thought about becoming his wife. It must've been nerves.

"Auntie Ginny, Grandmummy says breakfast is ready." The melodic voice of Victoire, Bill and Fleur's oldest daughter, rang from the doorway. "Oh hi Aunt Hermione." She greeted Hermione, who responded with a clumsy wave, her focus on the child in her arms.

"We'll be there in a minute, thanks Victoire." Ginny answered, receiving Albus from Hermione's arms like the professional she was. "Well, I guess it's time to get going." She beamed, leading the way back to the kitchen. Hermione followed, wincing at the volume. The entire Weasley clan was packed into the space, the children of the next generation already helping themselves to the trays of food. Hermione sat next to Ron, who had already filled her plate with eggs, mushrooms, and beans, trying to serve her some black pudding as she sat. She gave him a look and he smiled sheepishly under her stare, banishing the black pudding to the other end of the table.

Hermione listened as she ate, responding when she needed to, though it was infrequently since there were so many others willing to tell their own stories. Instead, she thought of Draco, wondering if he was still in the hospital. Did he know about his parents? Did he have anyone who would help him through this time? Hermione attributed her sanity only to Ron and Harry, who checked on her far too frequently for her to have time to truly dwell on her own parents' deaths.

"Hermione?"

Hermione looked up at her name, making eye contact with Percy, who stood by the window with an owl.

"Yes?" She asked, standing to meet him.

"Letter for you." Percy handed her the note and she opened it, biting her cheek at the message within.

 _From the Desk of Bitsy Smetham_

 _Receptionist_

 _St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_

 _Fourth Floor - Spell Damage_

 _Miss Granger,_

 _Please return to St. Mungo post-haste. Your patient by the name of Draco Malfoy has caused a scene. Your presence and care is required._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Bitsy_

Hermione gave the owl a small treat of sausage before it flew away, having completed its job. She returned to the table and explained the situation to Ron, who cast her a foul glance.

"You'll miss presents." He complained and she shrugged.

"Not much I can do about that when I've got a belligerent patient." She kissed him on the cheek. "You'd do the same if you got an owl, yes?"

He nodded begrudgingly, taking a swig of tea. "Yeah, yeah, use my work against me. I'll see you tonight, though?"

"I don't see why not." She responded. "That's hours away. You'll explain Audrey's gift to her, won't you?"

"I will." Ron agreed. "See you later."

Hermione explained the situation quickly to Harry, who wished her luck with a terrible patient, and when she stepped into the fireplace, part of her was ashamed to admit that she felt some relief stepping away from the Weasley family and the happy home that surrounded them.

She pushed the thought away, refusing to let herself feed into her fears, and with a gust of green fire, she disappeared from the Burrow into the Floo Network.

* * *

 _"It's rather ugly, isn't it?" He asked, lifting his arm for Hermione to view. She spared a glance at it, looking back to the mortar and pestle in her hands._

 _"I've seen uglier."_


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again!**

 **Boy, so I wasn't expecting the reaction I got, so thank you for the support and critiques! It's all very helpful to know what I'm doing well and what I can do to improve. I'm new to writing something that's not a paper, so all the feedback really helps (and is already going into play in the chapter I've been writing since I last posted).**

 **I'd like to address a few points I saw in the reviews, so I guess I'll go in order!**

 **hermione23415 : To sate my curiosity, I did a comparison of chapter 1 of HBP to my chapter 1, and I'm only about 2 words shy of that word average, so I'd love to know what it is that makes the sentences feel short. As for how much dialogue there is, I'm working on it and hope to build the plot up so I hope you'll give it another chance! **

**farahemylia99 & Guest: That first chapter was definitely a bit gruesome; I promise it should be as bad as it gets for the rest of the story. More specifically to Guest, without getting too much into things that'll be addressed later, Harry and Ron's nonchalance toward the murders stems from a place of having to be removed because they wouldn't be able to do their jobs well if they were heavily affected every time they saw this kind of crime. Hermione and Draco...well...it'll be addressed eventually ;)**

 **Totally Spazz-tastic : Thank you for the thorough response! I'll definitely be looking back to your words when I write to try to improve what I'm doing as I go. I did think it was interesting you noted that it wasn't explained that Hermione was a healer until Draco mentioned it; I thought laying it out early in the chapter that she was reading a patient folder and worked at St. Mungo's was enough, but should it have been stated explicitly? I don't want to just jam facts at the reader, so I'm trying to find a balance.**

 **So thanks again for everyone's reactions! I wasn't expecting to post again so soon but I guess you guys really spurred on the writing process so keep it coming!**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

To say Draco Malfoy had caused a scene seemed to be an understatement. Upon arriving at St. Mungo's, Hermione heard the hollering from the stairwell as she went up to the fourth floor. With embarrassment and irritation, she stormed through the sets of doors to get to the waiting room, pausing to take in the scene befniore her. At the front desk sat Bitsy Smetham, who was trying to appease an angry patient. He yelled unintelligibly at Bitsy, waving his good arm about dramatically. Confused, Hermione looked around for Draco, assuming he was the source of the commotion, finding him sprawled across a waiting chair, his skin paler than usual, bits of sweat beading about his hairline. His arm was back around his side, his brow knit tightly together. Trying to piece together the situation, Hermione slowly approached the desk. Bitsy looked relieved at the appearance of another staff member.

"Healer Granger." She gasped, looking between Hermione and the man. "We've been waiting for you."

"Miss Smetham." Hermione greeted. "Waiting for me how?"

"Well, we've had some...disruptions due to a patient of yours. Mister Malfoy."

"Is that so?" Hermione asked, immediately on the defense.

"Yes." Bitsy continued, the man interrupting.

"You think it's all right to treat his kind here?" He pointed a finger at Hermione and she tensed at the motion, not liking the confrontation.

"And what kind is that?" Hermione asked coolly, refusing to let her temper get the best of her. "The kind in need of medical attention?"

"No." The man argued, bits of saliva flying from his mouth. " _That_ kind was forced to go away at the end of the war!" He gestured to Draco and Hermione looked over, noting for the first time that the grey ink of the Dark Mark stood out against the white skin of Draco's arm. She wondered how the man had seen it so keenly, given that the arm displaying the Mark was wrapped around Draco's body, only the edges peeking out when he adjusted his position, which wasn't very often. She'd need to get him checked quickly.

"Are you suggesting that I let a man go untreated and possibly _die_ because you don't like a choice he made?" She asked, barely waiting for an answer. "Surely that can't be what you're saying. After all, look at him. Given his age, he must've been no more than sixteen when he took on that burden, which must mean there were a number of external factors guiding his choices. You can't possibly be proposing that I get to decide this man's fate based on a decision he made as a child. Because that would mean I also have the right to decide _not_ to treat you because of your choice to exhibit rude behavior, which I certainly wouldn't do. That doesn't seem like something someone like you would be suggesting, since you seem like a man who makes sense. When he isn't suffering from a head full of Wrackspurts, I mean. After all, that _must_ be why you're here, right?"

"I'm here because my son hit me with a rogue paralysis spell!" He raised his arm angrily.

"Hmm. You should get checked for Wrackspurts while you're at it. Be sure to let his healer know, Miss Smetham." Hermione turned away from the counter and walked up to Draco. "Up you go." She put her shoulders under his arm and lifted him out of his seat, pulling him to a private room. She fed Draco a pain tonic and he took it glumly, drinking it in one swig. Hermione moved his gown from the wound she had healed and noticed the greyish colour had returned. She muttered under her breath, disappearing from the room to gather more supplies. When she returned, she sat down, mixing together the ingredients to clear away the hex.

"You've been getting intro trouble." Hermione commented, trying to lighten the mood. She still felt tense from the man's accusation, knowing that while she, too, hated Death Eaters and all they stood for, she had no right to deny them medical care when needed. They were human too. Well, most of them.

"No more than usual." Draco jested, smirking weakly at Hermione's glare. "Can't say I blame them." He noted, staring at his exposed forearm. Draco didn't often see the tattoo that marred his skin. It reminded him of every poor choice he made growing up, even those that weren't under the direct order of the Dark Lord. Admittedly, he had been proud - or something akin to proud - when he was given the Mark, but now...now it reminded him of death and bad decisions. "It's rather ugly, isn't it?" He asked, lifting his arm for Hermione to view. She spared a glance at it, looking back to the mortar and pestle in her hands.

"I've seen uglier." She responded quietly, thinking of her own scars left after the war. "It's fading, isn't it?" She asked, glancing at Draco, his eyes fixed on his arm.

"For a period of time, it did." He nodded, laying it back down beside him, the spell broken. "Following his death. It's looked this way for a few years now. I imagine it won't reduce any further, which means I'll be subjected to ridicule and prejudice for the rest of my life, I suppose."

"We should form a club." Hermione spoke, lifting her left sleeve all the way to her elbow. Draco looked openly at the writing, noticing that it hadn't faded like a normal scar. Dark pink and uneven, the word 'mudblood' looked nearly fresh against Hermione's light skin. _Leave it to Bellatrix to use a cursed blade._ "The pure-bloods and mudbloods: fringe society." She said bitterly, pulling her sleeve back down. Draco realised he was staring and blinked, looking away.

"You smell like bacon." Draco changed the subject. "And Weasley."

"And pray tell, what do the Weasleys smell like?" Hermione asked, quirking a brow. She readjusted Draco's hospital gown and began pressing the paste she'd made onto the mark.

"Charcoal, dirt, and hand-me-downs." The last made Hermione roll her eyes. "Did you have an enjoyable breakfast, at least? Before you were called back to solve the Death Eater problem?" He asked, twisting his shoulder to make more room for Hermione to work.

"Verily." Hermione answered, Draco sensing a "but" somewhere in her voice. He didn't press.

"Would you like to know how I spent mine?" He asked, trying to relax into a comfortable position, though he supposed he couldn't be comfortable with his injuries, and Hermione's cold hands kneading into his side.

"Sure." Hermione bobbed her head, barely paying attention. It was common for patients to want to talk, and Hermione had spent years living with two boys who droned on and on. She was brilliant at tuning people out.

"Well, I slept very much like an infant, thanks to whatever potions you gave me, and when I woke, it was to a man slapping down a tray of what looked to be a slice of some overcooked eggs and a mound of sludge onto my nightstand, wishing me a Happy Christmas, rather sarcastically. Terrible bedside service, if you ask me; I considered reporting him to his superior for so rudely waking me for nothing more than a subpar Christmas pudding.

"Anyway, following _that_ debacle, I went back to sleep, to be woken _this_ time to a witch in the bed next to me, mumbling in tongues. Imagine my dismay when I opened my eyes to see she was staring straight at me, a frightening grin stretched across her face. When I went to the desk to ask for a transfer, I was promptly guided back to my bed, forced to listen to the woman continue for at least an hour's time. In my displeasure, I returned to the desk, only to be told I was 'making a scene' and would have to wait for _you_ to return and sort the whole thing out. Then my side grew painful again, and that wretched man with a bad temper showed up." Draco paused, watching Hermione's face.

"You were quite fierce with him." He pointed out and Hermione's eyes flicked up to his before returning to massaging the paste into his skin. "I must admit, I felt almost honoured to have you defending me."

"I took an oath when I became a Healer." She explained. "We mustn't let any prejudice affect our work. We are meant to help, not to turn a blind eye to that which we don't like."

"So I'm not special, then, am I?" He muttered, shuddering as Hermione wiped the paste away with a damp cloth.

"No." She confirmed. "Probably the first time you've heard that, eh?" She smiled and in response, Draco matched her expression, not wanting to ruin her quaint image of him.

With the wound cleansed from the inside out, Hermione performed the same spell she had the night before that cured the injury.

"There." She scrunched up her nose happily. "It should stick this time." She told Draco as she cleaned her hands and gathered her supplies. "I think I just got to you too late last night and the hex was deeper than I was expecting."

"You _think_?" Draco pressed. "That's reassuring, Granger. You tell all your patients that?"

"Just the special ones." She shrugged, the gravity of the situation returning to her. At this point in the appointment, she would fetch the loved ones and explain the situation. Draco didn't have any loved ones anymore, at least that Hermione knew of. Did he know yet?

"Do you know what happened last night?" She asked him, trying to gauge the situation.

"Not particularly." He looked up at the ceiling to avoid Hermione's gaze. "One moment I was asleep, then I was awoken by a flash, then blindness, and I tried to hex whoever had hit me, but then they were gone."

"What happened to your parents?" She pressed, a knot forming in her stomach. _He had to have known, hadn't he?_

"Don't know." He said. "We don't particularly engage all that often, given how far apart our living quarters are. They have the west wing, I have the east."

"Ah." Hermione bit her lip, nodding. "Well I'm sure this will all be resolved soon." She tried to reassure him, but he didn't respond. "I'll note your room change to the staff. Is there anything else you need before I leave?" She asked, secretly hoping that he had some menial task for her to complete so she wouldn't have to go back to the Burrow.

"You've done quite enough, Miss Granger." He complimented. "I think I should like to sleep now, if that's all right with the Healer."

"Yes. Yes it is. Sleep always helps heal." Hermione acknowledged. "I'll let you get to it then." She left the room and let Bitsy know of the change, though Bitsy's giggle and tight expression indicated that she wasn't fully comfortable with having an ex-Death Eater at St. Mungo's. Hermione ignored her discomfort and Flooed home, deciding Draco had been right about needing to sleep. She abandoned her trousers and jumper at the door to her bedroom and crawled into bed in her knickers, turning onto her left side. She stared down at the scar near the crook of her arm. _Why had she shown it to Malfoy?_ She hated that scar more than any of the other ones her body displayed from the war. She kept it covered all year round. And yet she had shown it to Draco. One of the few people still living who had been there when it happened. One of the few people still living who had called her that name to her face. She didn't want to admit it to herself, but seeing that vulnerable side of Draco - seeing _his_ mark made her want to match him. Neither side came out of the war unscathed.

Too tired to keep her eyes open, Hermione fell into a dreamless sleep, only woken when she felt Ron climb into her bed. She opened her eyes as he kissed her shoulder and noted that it was nearly dark outside.

"This is a nice surprise." Ron expressed, shifting his weight so he was lying behind her, on top of the covers. "Is this my Christmas present?"

"No." Hermione denied, stretching her toes tiredly. "Is mine that you're certainly not wearing shoes in my bed?"

"Of course it is." Ron said slyly, shoving his boots off with his toes. They hit the floor with a _clunk_ and Hermione chuckled, turning to face him.

"So how was the Burrow?" Hermione asked, shoving herself deeper under the covers for warmth.

"Everyone loved your gifts." Ron spoke. "And I've got all of yours in a bag waiting for you. I told them you were busy but wanted to be there."

"Thanks." Hermione hummed in appreciation. "I didn't sleep enough last night and couldn't imagine keeping my energy up enough for Christmas with the Weasleys."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ron asked defensively and Hermione laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. She pressed her nose into the collar of his shirt and inhaled deeply. Blast, he _did_ smell like hand-me-downs. She could never let Draco know.

Hermione climbed out of bed and put on her jumper and trousers, fixing her hair from the frizzy mess it had turned into while she slept on it. By the time she came out to the living room, Ron was positioning her gifts under the little tree she had won in the raffle at work, which had stood devoid of life until Ron had spruced it up with its own personal cloud, the fresh falling snow disappearing before it had a chance to melt on her wood floors.

"Are those really all for me?" She asked, raising her eyebrows. She had only expected gifts from Ron's parents and Harry and Ginny, yet there were a couple extra under the tree.

"George and Angelina got you this." Ron lifted up a neatly wrapped box. "And James wanted to give you his own this year." He pointed at the thin, lumpy package. "I think he's got a crush on you."

Hermione rolled her eyes, knowing the toddler was only fond of her because she would run away whenever he came around. Ginny and Harry had forgiven her for that time she'd dropped him, but that didn't mean she wasn't scared she wouldn't hurt him again.

"Does he now? I'm glad to know I've got a suitor in line in case you don't work out." She joked, realising she'd gone too far when Ron didn't smile. "Ron-"

"No, no. It's fine." He cut her off, giving her a joyless smile. "I should know by now that you're joking, but to someone like me - who would've been ready to marry you the moment Voldemort was dead - maybe you can see why it isn't funny."

"I know." She lamented, trying to calm Ron down. The last thing she wanted to do on Christmas was argue with her fiancé. "I'm sorry. I just don't know how to do any of this, so I don't want to rush into it."

" _Rush into it?_ Blimey, Mione, we've been together for eight years!" Ron pressed. "Explain to me where we're rushing it!"

"Well I'm only twenty six, to begin with!" Her voice climbed in pitch. "We have all the time in the world to be married, and given that half our lives were spent fighting one of the most powerful and evil wizards of all time, I think we're entitled to a bit of time as healthy young adults before jumping into something new!" She evened her breathing when she saw the confused expression on Ron's face. "I don't know who I am, Ron. And neither do you." She tried to share the burden, though deep down, Hermione knew it was only her who was confused. "I don't want to make any mistakes, and I don't want to hurt you." _At least not more that I already have_ , she thought.

"Can we just go to dinner, please?" She asked, resting her hand on his crossed forearms. Despite pouting, Ron nodded, and with the confirmation, Hermione took his hand and led him out of her apartment, the two walking to a restaurant they'd gotten a reservation at weeks ago several blocks away. They ate in relative silence and Hermione hated how she had ruined the evening. It wasn't often they go to spend extended periods of time together; their jobs kept both of them busy, and she'd made one of their few special evenings awkward and stiff.

When they returned to her flat, they opened their gifts to each other (a marble and wood wizard chess set for Ron and a signed first edition of _A History of Magic_ for Hermione), and opted for an early night in since both were still tired from the previous night's events.

As Hermione lay in bed, she watched Ron sleep, and sorrow rose in her chest. She was destroying their relationship; she knew she was. And yet in some strange, twisted notion, she was all right with that. Outwardly, she despised the way their relationship was failing. She loved Ron. She always would. Yet that underlying part of her wouldn't let her abandon the idea that maybe they weren't meant to be together. Maybe they were just too different now.

Hermione rolled over to face the window and closed her eyes, willing sleep to come.

* * *

 _"Absolute nutter, whoever did it. Why dismember the bodies if he just wanted the arm?"_

 _"Could be a she." Hermione pointed out. "No sense in ruling women out of this."_

 _"Then she's an absolute nutter." Ron amended._


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm back. I've missed you all, though I don't think you missed me very much :( Where did my peeps go? New peeps? I see the stats and I appreciate it, but I want to hear from you. I've got questions and I want to hear what everyone thinks! It really does affect how I write (something I'm trying to improve) so even the constructive criticism is worth it. Also it helps me write faster, so you should all like that.**

 **Less to address this chapter in terms of comments.**

 **Honoria Granger : I snorted when I noticed what you called Ron. I'd nearly forgotten that beautiful nickname. I think I might've mentioned it in an earlier chapter, but in case I didn't, this isn't going to be one of those quick "omg I love you and you love me" kind of stories. I don't think that stays very true to the characters. I mean it took Hermione and Ron _how_ long to get together despite mutual interest? Neither of them are the type to rush into anything.**

 **I'm liking the idea of keeping the previews of the next chapter, what do y'all think? Maybe they inspire you to write little old Cherry a review ;p**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

New Years passed with relative ease, Hermione thought. Ron likely disagreed, judging by the way he buried himself in work, but Hermione was happy to ignore the change. The few nights he spent over, she noticed paperwork regarding the Malfoy Manor case sticking out of his disheveled bag, and out of curiosity, she asked him about it one night over dinner.

"There's nothing new yet." Ron noted, disgruntled. "Absolute nutter, whoever did it. Why dismember the bodies if he just wanted the arm?"

"Could be a she." Hermione pointed out. "No sense in ruling women out of this."

"Then _she's_ an absolute nutter." Ron amended.

"I take it Malfoy knows now? About his parents." She brought the subject up hesitantly, uncertain she wanted the answer.

"Yeah." Ron nodded. "Let Harry take that one." Ron shuddered. "Imagine if I'd told him. 'Thanks for the news, Weasel, looks like me and my inheritance are still worth more than you.'" Ron straightened his long frame, pursing his lips and putting on a posh voice. Hermione's stomach knotted at the impersonation, knowing that unless Draco was a complete sociopath (still), there's no way he'd have such a reaction to losing both his parents. Hermione didn't push the subject, realising Ron didn't understand the experience of having both his mother and father die. He didn't even know what it was like to lose one.

Come the second week of January, Hermione made an agreement with herself to visit Draco, if to only offer her condolences. Of course, it would be under the guise of a checkup, but as she sat at her desk between patients, she wrote up a letter to Draco to set up a visit.

 _From the Desk of Hermione Granger_

 _Healer_

 _St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_

 _First Floor - Creature Induced Injuries_

 _Malfoy,_

 _As your healer, I write to you regarding your well being._

 _In the next week, do you have an hour or so to spare? I should like to perform a comprehensive exam to be certain you are not still suffering from any afflictions related to your injuries._

 _Do let me know._

 _Hermione Granger_

Hermione folded and sealed the parchment and tied it to the leg of Iaso, a hospital owl. She flew out the window with her mission in mind, disappearing into the sky. Hermione returned to her patients, treating plenty of pixie bites from a group of Armenian tourists, and when she headed to the fifth floor for her break, she found Iaso waiting for her, a different note wrapped around her leg. Hermione took it and fed her a bit of treat, sitting down before opening the letter.

 _Granger,_

 _Must you insist on a visit? I'm perfectly well._

 _I suppose you'll have some know-it-all explanation so I'll save you the trouble of giving me a scolding (sorry to disappoint). Is Wednesday good for you? I can go to the hospital after work._

 _~Draco Malfoy~_

Hermione rolled her eyes at the sarcasm and wrote out her response as Iaso waited.

 _From the Desk of Hermione Granger_

 _Healer_

 _St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_

 _First Floor - Creature Induced Injuries_

 _Malfoy,_

 _Let me save you a trip to the hospital (and save myself the unnecessary workplace embarrassment) and come to you. Wednesday does work for me. I can Floo over at six o'clock._

 _Hermione Granger_

She sent the response and had a cup of tea, reading up on the latest in politics thanks to the Daily Prophet someone left on the table.

"Absolute rubbish." She muttered as she tossed the paper in the bin, the photo of Minster Shacklebolt crying out in surprise. She apologised halfheartedly to the picture, knowing it didn't matter, but her muggle roots wouldn't let her get used to treating things irresponsibly when they responded poorly.

As she cleaned out her cup, Iaso flew back into the window and Hermione retrieved the paper, reading it through.

 _Granger,_

 _If you're certain I can't come to St. Mungo's (me embarrass you? Impossible. I am the picture of propriety), I suppose you may come won't be able to Floo in, though; there are enchantments in place - admittedly some since the seventeenth century that I don't know how to remove - so you'll have to Apparate to the front gate. I will meet you there to let you in._

 _~Draco Malfoy~_

Hermione held the note a little tighter than necessary, her fingers hurting. While she didn't like Apparating, that wasn't the issue that bothered her: the front gate. The front gate where Bellatrix brought her, Harry, and Ron for Draco's approval before calling in Voldemort. The front gate where Bellatrix brought her to a fate that now branded her.

"Thank you, Iaso." Hermione spoke to the bird, who blinked once before flying off to the hospital owlery.

Pushing the visit from her mind, Hermione returned to work, sighing in relief when her shift was finally over. She Flooed home and changed from her hideous green robes into a wool skirt, stockings, and the jumper Mrs. Weasley had knit her for Christmas. It was chunky and a curious shade of blue somehow mixed with brown, but at least it was warm.

After fixing the tips of her hair, Hermione returned to her fireplace and Flooed to Harry and Ginny's home for their monthly dinner. Ginny had insisted on such an event, justifying that everyone was so busy that they would never get together without a set plan, and Hermione agreed, knowing that she needed a date on the calendar to keep her on schedule.

"Evening, Hermione." Ginny greeted from the kitchen once she saw the brunette in the doorway. "You're the first to arrive. It looks like Harry and Ron and trapped at work still." She nodded at the eagle owl sitting in its cage in the corner. "Just got Harry's message."

"That's all right." Hermione placated, knowing that Ginny had her hands full (literally) with dinner and children. "Is there anything I can do to help you get caught up until they get here?"

"Oh Hermione, you're a corker, would you go change Albus?" Ginny gestured to the infant strapped to her chest and laughed when she saw Hermione grimace. "You should see your face! No, no, I'll go change Albus, would you mind watching the pot?"

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and nodded, letting Ginny run off to the bathroom. She watched all the dishes cooking until Ginny returned, at which point the two decided Harry and Ron could eat together if they wanted to; they were hungry. Ginny got James and Albus to bed while Hermione plated rice and curry, setting the two bowls across from each other. Ginny returned and happily took a seat while Hermione poured two glasses of water.

"Thanks." Ginny spoke as Hermione set the cups down.

"Thank you for making dinner. Like always." Hermione responded, taking the seat opposite Ginny.

"You know, you don't actually have to wear those." Ginny pointed to Hermione's jumper, grimacing at the thought of her own mustard yellow garment laying at the bottom of her drawer.

"I love these." Hermione defended the piece of clothing protectively. "Your mother knows the perfect balance between comfort and warmth."

"Completed with a pinch of man-repellent." Ginny snickered. "Honestly, Hermione, that thing gives you the appearance of an eighty year old witch with too many cats. It's a wonder Ron hasn't burned them all up yet." She took a bite of curry.

"I caught him trying to toss them once." Hermione confessed. "Had the whole lot in his arms and he was staring at the bin, weighing his options, when I caught him."

Ginny laughed, the image of a caught-red-handed Ron in her head. "That should be a sign, you know." Ginny pointed out. "One that says: 'don't wear these clothes when we're together.'"

"If this is the worst thing I've dressed in, so be it." Hermione argued, knowing that at this point in the relationship, Ron cared less about her attire than he cared about her investment in the relationship.

"You could add some interest to the bedroom and wear nothing _but_ one of those jumpers. See if he likes them then." Ginny suggested and Hermione choked on her bite.

"Man alive, Ginny, that's your brother!" Hermione exclaimed and Ginny rolled her eyes.

"Yes, and you're my friend, and I have to have girl talk with you so it's _your_ fault it has to be about my brother." Ginny noted, shifting her attention easily to the fireplace as Harry and Ron came walking in.

"Evening." Harry greeted, kissing Ginny on the cheek as he passed the table to get to the kitchen.

"Evening." Ginny returned, eyeing Hermione when Ron didn't show her any affection as he said hello. Hermione shrugged, not wanting to waste her breath explaining the turmoil they were in at the moment.

"Blimey, curry again?" Ron called from the kitchen, the awkward moment forgotten as Ginny began bickering with her brother.

"It might do you some good to broaden your diet, Ron." Ginny pointed out. "You can't live on only shepherd's pie and Sunday roast your whole life."

"Yeah, but you've made it the last two times we've been over." Ron finally acknowledged Hermione's presence as he sat down next to her.

"I think Muggle London is finally rubbing off on Ginny." Hermione commented, knowing that Ginny's latest food obsession could be attributed to the time Hermione took her to lunch at an Indian restaurant.

The dinner was calm, and Hermione appreciated it greatly. There was some stimulating conversation, witty banter, and even serious discussion over tea. All in all, the night was pleasant and reminded Hermione why she was still with Ron, despite the rough patches.

Ron Flooed home with Hermione, only to explain that he had a heavy workload with the Malfoy case, to which Hermione reassured him she wouldn't be offended if he went to his place for the night. He thanked her profusely and Apparated out of her flat, leaving her to the quiet noise of city life outside her window. She was accustomed to it, and on some nights - like that night - the noise kept her head from getting too silent as she tried to sleep.

The evening she was set to meet Draco at Malfoy Manor, Hermione returned home after work at about five, having worked a twelve hour shift beginning early in the morning. She tiredly changed from her work robes into jeans and a long sleeved shirt, letting her hair down from its bun. She ran her fingers through it to loosen the knots before plaiting it, yawning as she hung up her work attire and made herself a cup of coffee in an attempt to rouse herself awake, waving her wand briefly to pack up her purse with some medical supplies she had taken home just in case Draco _did_ need treatment again.

She cleaned up a bit while she waited for the time to pass, willing her eyes not to pass over the clock as it neared six. The knot in her stomach grew, knowing the time was growing closer and closer, and when it was five minutes to six, she gathered up her belongings and took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she Apparated with a quiet "pop" to the front gates of Malfoy Manor.

When she opened her eyes, they shot directly to the gate in front of her, still black wrought iron and looming. Even in the hours of dusk, its intricate, lavish design was daunting and cold. She didn't like it.

"Evening, Granger."

Hermione jumped at the familiar drawl, her attention brought down to the lanky, blonde boy in front of her.

"Evening." She greeted, readjusting the bag on her shoulder. "Are you going to let me in?" She looked at the gate then back to Draco.

A soft smirk bloomed on his face. "I'm considering it. Then again, this is a nice position, isn't it? Me, on this side of the gates, you, on that side." He gestured between them and Hermione sighed.

"Draw it out if you must, Malfoy, I'll be checking your injuries tonight no matter how much you protest. You _are_ my patient, after all." She stared at him expectantly and Draco quirked his mouth, waving a hand indifferently, the gates creaking opening in reaction.

"You should oil those." Hermione pointed out as she passed over the threshold, focusing on the present. "And perhaps consider watering your garden while you're at it." She muttered, eyeing the brittle, dying hedges lining the walkway.

"Are you looking for a job?" Draco retorted, joining her as the two walked together to the estate in the near distance. "Sorry, I have a strict 'no Golden Trio' hiring policy. You understand, I'm sure."

"You wouldn't want me for a groundskeeper." Hermione brushed over the sarcastic comment, growing used to them. "I kill every plant I touch. Can't even keep a cactus alive."

"So divination, and horticulture." Draco spoke, glancing up at the sky.

"Excuse me?" Hermione looked over at him, confused.

"I'm keeping a list of subjects you're not good at." Draco explained like it was a common activity. "We're up to two now. Unless you have any you'd like to add." He looked down at her, waiting for an answer. Hermione thought, chewing her lip.

"Flying." She admitted.

A smile broke out on Draco's face. "Really? Hermione Granger can't fly? How were you top student if you couldn't fly?"

Hermione gaped at his expression. "We didn't _all_ grow up on the back of a broomstick. Some of us used them for sweeping." She retorted, folding her arms across her chest, Draco chuckling at her indignation.

"My apologies." He corrected. "I'm still adding it to the list." Ignoring the miffed noise Hermione made, Draco opened the front door and gestured for Hermione to walk through. The reality of the situation hit her again and she looked into the Manor, forcing herself to not to let the past rule her life. With her chin high and her shoulders squared, she stepped into the foyer, her breath leaving her lungs nearly immediately.

It was the smell that hit her first. Clean, sterile, acrid. The scent was familiar in an all too unpleasant way. She bit back the memory of being dragged across the marble floors. After the smell came the sound - or lack of sound. There was nothing. Not a single sign that the home was in use. When Draco shut the door behind them, it echoed through the open space, reminding Hermione of the wicked laughter that reverberated through the Manor the same way.

It was the hand on the back of her arm that brought her out of her trance, reminding her of why she was there.

"I don't have a hospital wing, but Thrump converted my office into a somewhat clinical space." Draco commented, lightly steering her toward the staircase. Hermione was thrilled to be going up a flight rather than down the right corridor, pausing on the third step when she processed what Draco had said.

"Thrump?" She asked quizzically, narrowing her eyes when Draco didn't readily respond. "Malfoy..." She spoke warningly and Draco caved.

"Oh all right, he's a house-elf." Draco explained, holding a finger up to silence Hermione before she could begin. "He's properly cared for, mind you. Has his own room, makes his own schedule, bathes everyday, the germophobic little bugger." He muttered the last bit. "And he refuses payment so don't even start in on the 'slavery' thing you took up in school." Draco finished, Hermione's mouth left hanging open. She hadn't expected such a thorough response. It almost disappointed her when she couldn't scold him.

"Well that's because he's been indoctrinated to believe he doesn't deserve payment," was her retort. Draco snorted, able to tell she was grasping for something to pick at.

"Sure." He agreed coolly, gesturing for Hermione to continue her ascent up the stairs. She obliged, letting Draco take the lead once they reached the landing. He led her down two halls, the paintings on the wall leering at her as she passed them.

"Your home is rather uninviting." Hermione announced, making certain the portraits could hear her. None of them seemed embarrassed. "Have you thought about taking any of them down or do you like the company?" She asked as Draco turned to see what she meant.

He shrugged halfheartedly, stopping at a door near the end of the hall. "Years upon years of the Malfoy bloodline grace these halls." He told Hermione, though it didn't sound like he was gloating. "My father liked them. He said they encompassed the Malfoy name and to keep them in mind when we make decisions." A look Hermione couldn't place flitted across his sharp features. "I have yet to redecorate."

Realising that she was probably pushing an issue she wasn't quite ready to discuss, Hermione changed the subject. "Are you going to open that door and let me examine you, or are we going to have to do it out here? With all of _them_ watching." She jerked her head toward the image of a particularly stuffy looking woman that had to have been painted no more recent than the 1700s. The woman harrumphed noisily before folding her arms and turning her back to them. With a sneer, Draco shook his head, opening the door.

"After you, Granger."

* * *

 _Draco began walking Herimone down the hall in case she got lost, nearly tipping over when she whipped around to point at him, her brown eyes sparkling with intrigue._

 _"How did the murderer get into your home that night? Did they use the Floo network?"_

 _Draco's eyes widened at the question._


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello friends. I've missed you. I've been working hard on this chapter (and am furiously writing to try to get on top of the return to school in several weeks!), and I hope it's enjoyable. It's got a little bit of history, a little bit of heart to heart, and a little bit of headway on the Malfoy murders. A little bit of progress on all (okay, most, you Dramione sticklers) fronts.**

 **Nothing to really address from the reviews, but thank you for the support, those who did leave a comment. As always, please let me know how I'm doing, ask me any questions you have, tell me what could improve what I'm doing, etc etc. I've seen the stats so I know you're reading, but I'd love to know what you're thinking. It really does help! As always, I've added a preview of the next chapter as a bit of incentive. Chapter 5 is looking pretty intense ;)**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

Hermione entered Draco's office, pleasantly surprised to find there were no portraits in this room, only paintings of landscapes with trees and rivers that gently swayed in a subtle breeze. In fact, the whole room was rather peaceful given the disagreeable nature of the rest of the Manor. Wine coloured walls, mahogany crown moulding with matching built in bookshelves behind a dark, sturdy desk, and two leather chairs in front of the fireplace opposite the desk, which had been lit.

Hermione looked awkwardly about the room. She didn't know to gauge how Draco was doing; he had always excelled at masking his true emotions, and that left her waiting for examine a wound she expected be healed. "I should check your injury." She expressed finally, looking at Draco expectantly. He stared at her for a moment too long before realising what she wanted.

"If you wanted me out of my clothes, Granger, you could've just asked." He smirked as her neck turned red from embarrassment, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt with deft fingers. Hermione dug around her bag to give Draco a moment of privacy as he undid the rest of his shirt, waiting until she knew he was done before turning to face him again. She approached and had him sit against the edge of his desk, brushing his shirt to the side.

"Has it been hurting?" She asked as she pressed the skin that was still pink from irritation.

Draco made a noncommittal noise. "No. Just a bit tingly."

"Tingly?" Hermione asked for confirmation, running her thumbs across his flesh. It turned white before fading back to pink. "It could be a result of that delayed treatment. I'll look into side effects. Any limitations in movement?"

"No." Draco shook his head, sighing when Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Do you take my word on nothing?" He asked, lifting his arm and rotating his shoulder. Hermione focused on the mark, watching the skin stretch over his ribs.

"You're too skinny." She mumbled under her breath, taking a salve and applying it just in case it would help with the healing process. After she covered the injury with gauze, Draco buttoned up his shirt, answering her questions as she threw them at him.

"So when you say tingly." She pressed. "Are we talking needles or fingertips?"

"Fingertips?" Draco answered, uncertain. It wouldn't have been his first choice of descriptor, but it definitely didn't hurt.

"Is it affecting how you eat?" She let her quill take notes as they spoke, leaning against the arm of one of the chairs by the fire while Draco stayed perched on his desk.

"I know, I'm too thin. You know, my father was thin, and his before him. These are genetics you're witnessing, not a crash diet." He retorted and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"The hex was delivered just about your liver and gall bladder; given that it can destroy your soft tissue, I wanted to know if it's affecting more than just your skin." Hermione waited for a serious response and Draco sighed, shaking his head.

"No, it's not affecting how I eat. Really." He amended when neither Hermione nor her quill budged. The quill looked to Hermione for confirmation and she gave it a quick nod. It scribbled down its notes.

There was a knock at the door.

"Enter." Draco gave permission and the door creaked open, a small house elf with spindly legs that didn't look to support its sturdy body entered the room, holding a silver tray upon which sat a tea set.

"Thrump has brought tea to Master Draco and his guest." Thrump looked at Hermione with mild disdain, and Draco was surprised to see that it didn't affect Hermione. She'd hardly reacted as positively when a student would give her a similar look during school. It was practically common knowledge to all of Slytherin that if you wanted to get an easy rise out of Hermione, just leer at her like she was contagious.

"Thank you, Thrump." She spoke strongly. "I'm Hermione. It's very nice to meet you."

"Thrump is pleased to meet you as well, he supposes." Thrump answered in a gravelly voice, though his words didn't seem to match his tone, and he set the tray on Draco's desk. "Shall Thrump pour master his cup?"

"No, Thrump, I've got it." Draco said and with a flick of his fingers, Thrump bowed his head and shuffled out of the room, not before sending another slightly disgusted - albeit curious - glance at Hermione. "Cuppa?" Draco asked Hermione and she nodded, pausing as Draco poured her a cup and held it out to her.

"It isn't poisoned, is it? Thrump hardly seemed to like me." She asked and Draco sighed, taking a drink out of the cup to prove a point.

"He might have the attitude of a pure-blood, he wouldn't poison a guest of mine. Not without permission, of course." Draco poured a new drink for Hermione, ignoring the glare she was sending him, and handed her the new drink. She accepted and cradled the teacup as her quill waited anxiously for more to write down. She noticed and returned to her questions.

"Have you noticed any changes in your sleeping pattern?"

Draco shrugged. "Yes but I wouldn't likely attribute them to the hex. There are _other_ things going on lately."

Hermione's face softened at this. "How has it been?" She probed, knowing this was her opportunity to do so.

"Quiet, mostly." Draco played off her question, taking a drink from his teacup. "Though it was never very boisterous here to begin with, was it?" A sour smile flirted on his lips and Herimone recognised the gesture from her own behavior.

"You're blaming yourself, aren't you?" She asked and Draco's eyes shot up to hers, dark and cryptic. Within a moment, they went back to the glazed over expression Hermione was beginning to see as his attempt to remain unaffected. "It isn't your fault." She continued. "That you're the one who's still alive."

"Yes, well, I do wonder what the murderer's goal was. They made certain to take the mark of a Death Eater, yet they purposefully left _me_ alive. My mother was as innocent in all of this as she could've been, given the circumstances she was forced into; she never even took the Dark Mark. So why the two of them? Why even come to my room to blind me if I wasn't a target?"

"I don't know." Hermione answered and Draco chuckled humorously.

"That's a first." He pushed off the desk and walked to the cabinet behind it, digging around its interior.

"I don't know why he or she chose your parents," Hermione continued begrudgingly, "but I know you're carrying the burden of responsibility for living on your shoulders."

"And how would you know, Granger?" Draco called over his shoulder. "They teach you that during Healer training? Spend a week learning to notice signs in those who have recently lost everything?" His voice was raising and a glass fell from the cabinet he was searching, shattering against the wood floor. He cursed under his breath, stilling his movements.

"I know, Malfoy, because I went through the same thing." She set her teacup on the end table nearest her and slowly approached Draco. Hermione rounded the desk and kneeled in front of him, just out of range of the broken glass. Draco looked at her questioningly, trying to understand what she was doing. Was this what sympathy looked like? Pity? Comfort? He couldn't identify what she was doing, and in all reality, he was distinctly aware that he didn't know how to take Hermione's words.

"I _go_ through the same thing." She corrected herself, knowing the emotion wasn't only in her past. The knowledge that she was responsible for something as catastrophic as her parents' deaths weighed on her heavily, and she knew there would never be a time when it would ever truly go away. But perhaps she could spare Draco some of that heartache, if he even felt that. He was clearly affected in some way, and blaming himself for something that wasn't caused at his effort...maybe if he saw what it was like to truly be the cause, he wouldn't force himself to suffer believing he was responsible for Lucius and Narcissa's murders.

"Just before Harry, Ron, and I began the search for Voldemort's Horcruxes, I Obliviated my parents to protect them." Hermione noticed her voice wasn't nearly has strong as she was expecting it to be, but then again, she'd never had to tell anyone about her parents. The Order knew what she was going to do before she'd done it, and the news of their deaths was spread around without her needing to tell anyone. Even so, Hermione continued, refusing to let herself quit just because she was nervous. "By their account, they never had any children - and never knew what magic was - and were planning to move to Australia in search of fairer climate and new business opportunities. Their plane left Wednesday, but the Death Eaters got there Tuesday." Hermione watched the realisation spread across Draco's features, only for it to be clipped quickly by a mask of indifference. "They tortured them for information on me. For hours and hours. There was nothing my parents could tell them and when the Death Eaters grew to understand what I'd done, they killed them. My parents died without understanding why. And it's all due to my leisure that they didn't leave the country sooner." Hermione's voice was hesitant by the end of the story, and she felt like hell, but the ache she felt in her heart wasn't quite as bad as she'd been expecting. It was a gift, she supposed, for sharing with someone who was suffering from something very similar.

Draco stared at Hermione as she processed her emotions, her external reactions foreign to him. He was aware of what it felt to be in pain, or to experience loss, and he likely had his mother to thank for that. Early on, she had instilled in him that suffering wasn't a weakness, but a sign of depth and emotion that made him human. It had all seemed like rather useless information to a small child, but as an adult, Draco could look back at his life and know that Narcissa was trying to create a foundation for Draco to build upon himself, but that foundation was quickly dismantled by his father's iron rule and demanding ambition, which Lucius then used to mold his son into his protégé, always appearing calm and in control to an external viewer. It seemed very different for Hermione, Draco noted. Like she was raised in a home where expressing her feelings was more important than putting on a good front, and judging from the way she was beginning to tear up, she was failing miserably at putting up any sort of front.

One skill Draco was never taught by either parent was the ability to console, so the most he could do for Hermione in her current, unraveling state, was fish a bottle of firewhisky from the cabinet and hold it out to her. She laughed shakily and took the bottle from Draco's grasp, standing up and setting it on his desk as she opened it. He grabbed the still intact tumbler and cast a Mending Charm over the shattered one, taking the two glasses and placing them on the desk, letting Hermione pour them. He winced as she filled the crystal glasses nearly to the brim, watching the volume of the sixteen year old firewhisky drain from its bottle. Hermione handed him a glass and they didn't bother toasting, both taking a long drink from their cups.

Hermione's face twisted up, and she shook her head.

"It may taste strong, but it'll do you a load better than tea." Draco explained - more familiar with the benefits of alcohol than he was willing to admit - and Hermione agreed wholeheartedly, taking another drink.

It was some hours later that Hermione knew she was drunk; sitting on the floor of Draco's study, nearly shoulder to shoulder with her once classmate as they spoke of nonsense.

"What were their names?" Draco asked Hermione, looking over at her lazily. "The Death Eaters." He clarified when she stared at him with hazy, unfocused eyes.

"Rowle and Jugson." Hermione answered. "It was Rowle who told me all about their deaths." She wiped her nose clumsily. "Used it as leverage during a fight. Hoped I would act irrationally, I suppose, but he didn't seem to consider how good I was with a wand."

Draco quirked an eyebrow at Hermione's smirk.

"Let's just say that should I feel inclined, I could visit him anytime at St. Mungo's until his days are over."

"Merlin, Granger." Draco breathed, looking down at her with both a new found respect and fear. "I didn't know Gryffindors committed real crimes."

"It's not as though he was a good man." Hermione argued, glaring at Draco. "He was cruel and corrupt, and killed more innocent people than just my parents."

"Oh I fully condone the decision." Draco confirmed. "Can't say I'll do much less if I get to my mother's murderer before the Auror's do."

"Your mother's?" Hermione asked, sober enough to recognise the distinction. "Do you think there were two murderers that night?"

"I wouldn't know. But the only one I'm concerned with is whoever killed my mother. My father was wholly responsible for his actions and whatever repercussions they might bring. He brought his death upon himself. But not my mother." He went to pour himself another drink when he noted the bottle was empty. He tossed it forward, the glass container sliding noisily against the floor.

Hermione winced at the action, watching the bottle morph into more than she knew logically were there, placing a hand to her head.

"Oh I'm going to regret having drank so much in the morning." She muttered, letting her eyes close. Draco watched her as she tried to reestablish control of her drunken form, wondering if she was indeed feeling the same guilt he did, even all these years later. Is that what was in store for him? Pain and regret, no matter how much time passed? Draco supposed the real benefit of his father's controlling rules and strict demands was that he had less to feel now that he was gone. At least he only had one parent to mourn.

"I should go." She stumbled as she forced herself to stand. "It's getting late and I have an early shift." She reoriented herself and pointed her body toward the door. "Where's your Floo?"

"I told you, Granger, you're not on the approved list of Floo users." Draco stood too, both swaying. "You'll have to Apparate outside the Manor grounds, though you might be a little too sloshed for that."

Hermione groaned, ignoring his last comment. "You mean to tell me I have to walk all that way and _Apparate_ out of here? This place is terrible."

Draco began walking Herimone down the hall in case she got lost, nearly tipping over when she whipped around to point at him, her brown eyes sparkling with intrigue.

"How did the murderer get into your home that night? Did they use the Floo network?"

Draco's eyes widened, too, at the question. "I can check the log." He breezed past Hermione and she followed - albeit quite a bit clumsier since there seemed to be three hallways spinning about - and the two set off, winding around corners and down staircases until they reached a drawing room with a grandiose fireplace. Draco pulled his wand from his waist and pointed it at the hearth, speaking the novissime usum spell, which lit the mantle green with flames that displayed the last time the Floo had been used. The two sighed when it displayed time and day predating the murder by several weeks.

"There goes that theory, then." Hermione hummed. "It would've at least been a lead." She rubbed her neck and yawned, glancing at Draco, who looked as though his one chance at peace had been ripped from his hands. Empathy tugged at Hermione's heart and she rested a hand on his arm, willing him to connect with her. He granted her a single moment of honesty as their eyes met, but it passed quickly as a memory came to Draco.

"My father had a private Floo." He breathed, the flame in his eyes returning. "He claimed it was none of my business what he needed it for, but I caught him using it one day to sneak Death Eaters into our home just after the mass escape from Azkaban." Off they went again, this time back up the stairs and through many more halls, until they reached a study filled with antiques and more angry paintings.

Draco performed the same spell as he'd done with the last fireplace and relief flowed through both of the young adults. The date in the flames read Christmas Eve. They'd done it. They'd found a lead.

"I'll go tell Ron." Hermione gushed excitedly, abandoning a tired Draco as she rushed as quickly (and in as straight a line) as she could out to the gates, where she immediately Apparated to Ron's flat.

She stumbled through the dark space until she reached his bedroom, the snoring alerting her that he was out cold.

"Ron?" She called out, using her wand to light her way to the bed. "Ron. Ronald!"

Finally jumping at his name, Ron rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Whaddya doin here, Mione?" He turned his clock on the nightstand toward the bed. "Blimey, it's gone midnight!" He groaned, finally waking up enough for Hermione to turn on the bedside light. Ron adjusted, swinging his lanky legs out of bed until he was sitting up (nearly) straight. "What's going on?"

"You have to come." Hermione tugged weakly at his arm. "It's the Floo and we figured it out and you need to come to see." She babbled on and as Ron roused himself, he twisted his face up, trying to assess why his girlfriend was acting so strange. It made itself clear when he smelled the alcohol.

"Hermione, are you _drunk_?" He asked, gobsmacked. Never had he seen Hermione anything but sober. Not even the night they celebrated Voldemort's demise.

"Well, yes, but that isn't the point! You have to come!" She continued tugging until Ron finally asked her enough questions that he was able to determine why she was there.

"So there's a secret Floo with secret access for only certain people, and it was secretly used the night of the Malfoy murders." Ron confirmed the story, hardly believing it.

"Yes." Hermione moaned like it was common sense. "The Floo is your lead! Your way to solve the case!"

"It's something, Mione, but it's nothing pressing." Ron argued. "Nothing that can't wait until morning." He glanced at his clock. "Which will only be in a few hours." He muttered, pulling Hermione by the hand toward his bed. "Let's just sleep for now and I'll check it out first thing, yeah? Is that okay?"

Pouting, Hermione let Ron guide her under the comforter, growing tired. "But I didn't tell Malfoy I was leaving. Not really, anyway." She grumbled as she closed her eyes, shimmying her jeans off and sliding them and her shoes out of the bed and onto the floor.

Biting back an insult, Ron nodded. "I'll send him an owl. Just go to sleep."

"I suppose." Hermoine yawned and sleep overtook her nearly instantly. Confused from the night's events, Ron kept his word and sent Draco a quick note stating that Hermione passed along the message and he would check out the Floo in the morning before crawling back into bed, though any thoughts of sleep were now replaced with why his girlfriend had been at Malfoy Manor, getting chummy with their once school bully.

* * *

 _"You're so wrapped up in what happens to Malfoy - and it seems that you've forgotten what a knob he was to you in school - that you're not even home when I try to visit you!" Ron shouted back, his face turning nearly as red as his hair._

 _"I'm trying to cure a dying patient!" Hermione yelled back. "Maybe if you did your job and found out who murdered his parents, I would've found a better cure by now and have been done with it all!"_


	5. Chapter 5

**Oh hello. I'm back. How are you? Well, I hope.**

 **Anyways, shit kind of goes sideways in this chapter but it was kind of fun/sad to write. That person who commented about Won-Won will likely enjoy this chapter.**

 **As always, please review. For those who did, thank you! I love hearing your opinions. It's great to see everyone's feedback and for those of you who are trying to work out the mystery, I'm glad to see you're getting into it!**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

The Floo did turn out to be a lead in the case. It had been unregistered and news of its existence alone was a breakthrough for the Ministry, which prompted the searching of other ex-Death Eater homes for more unregistered Floos, and judging by the article in the Daily Prophet, many more were found and promptly destroyed, the owners greatly fined for their "forgetfulness," as many claimed kept them from registering their Floos. According to Ron, Draco didn't know who was on his father's list of approvals, which brought about a new brick wall, but it was a step in the right direction.

Hermione went back to work, keeping her word to Draco as she searched records and books for more information on the mortuus textus hex. When her research at St. Mungo's turned up next to nothing, she began spending hours and hours at libraries, checking out every book that even mentioned the hex, letting the search absorb her time. Ron noticed, of course, and made his stance on the situation well known.

"He's a git, Hermione. Who cares if he's got a little boo boo, he's not dead."

"And I suppose you deserve me to heal you of your little scratches because you're so likable." Hermione retorted, referring to the tin of experimental healing salve she'd invented and given Ron after a particularly nasty fight with an amateur wizard who fancied himself the next Lord Voldemort. Though Ron had never been a vain person, he used it at the sign of any little scrape.

Ron didn't have a good retort.

It was one night, sitting in bed, that Hermione was reading a book containing diaries from historical healers, and one of the entries directly discussed the healing process of mortuus textus when it wasn't treated immediately. Any chance of sleep gone, she read the page multiple times before scanning others from the same healer for more notes. While the healer had tried Hermione's methods of treating the hex, it was through four sessions of deep cleansing that the damage was finally repaired. The healer noted the name of the potion he used, but didn't include a recipe, which then prompted Hermione to begin digging through her own books, searching for the mundet salutem potion. When she'd exhausted her personal supply of books with no luck, she unwillingly climbed into bed, intending to find the recipe the next day at work.

She did, as luck would have it. In an old potions book coated with years upon years of dust. Browsing the ingredients list, most of the items were kept in stock at the hospital, and it required a week to brew each treatment, which needed to be fresh and couldn't be brewed in advance. While that news was disappointing, Hermione sent Draco an owl updating him on his treatment, and put in an order for the ingredients she was missing.

It was when she was dressing for dinner with Harry and Ginny that Hermione noticed how quickly the past month had gone. While she had become accustomed to boring nights in and the random fight with Ron, the two had seen each other only a handful of times since their last couple's dinner, something she was certain was not by accident.

"Hello, Ginny." Hermione greeted as she stepped through the Floo. Ginny greeted her from her position setting the table.

"Evening. You look nice." Ginny nodded toward Hermione's plain, rust coloured wrap dress and Hermione shrugged.

"It's been a pleasant few days, I suppose." She answered, her mood having improved since she'd received the Petrified Bbilliwig and Morning Dew just a day before, allowing her to finally begin the potion for Draco's treatment.

"Oh? That's good news. I imagine Ron's been taking advantage of that good mood, eh?" Ginny wiggled her eyebrows and Hermione hummed in agreement, though the last time Ron had even looked at her like she was anything special had been in October when she'd taken him to Dijon and all the wine he drank made him a little more romantic than his usual self.

"Hello, Hermione." Harry greeted as he stepped through the Floo, Ron following shortly after. "Evening, Ginny." He greeted his wife with a kiss on the cheek. "What's for dinner?"

"Doro wot." Ginny answered as she brought a basket of what looked to be a spongy flatbread, setting it on the table.

"Doro _what_?" Ron asked as he hung his coat up.

"Doro wot." Ginny repeated as she came back into the room with a dish filled with a red soup. "Chicken stew, really. It's Ethiopian." She waved her hand flippantly and Harry raised his eyebrows at Hermione, who shrugged innocently.

"Don't look at me. I've never even had Ethiopian food." She argued.

"You all should relax. It's quite good." Ginny spooned everyone a bowl and they all sat, Hermione next to Ron and across from Ginny. Ron was the first to take a bite, coughing heavily as he scrambled to grab his cup of water.

"Oh Ronald, it's not _that_ spicy." Ginny chided as she took a piece of flatbread and dipped it into the liquid. She ate it happily, humming a bit. Hermione hesitantly tried the dish and - while it was indeed spicy - she rather enjoyed the flavor.

"So how's work, Hermione?" Ginny asked as everyone settled into their meals.

"Work is work." Hermione answered cryptically, knowing that Ron didn't like what she was getting up to lately. "I had a woman come in the other week with a blast-ended skrewt injury."

"She know Hagrid?" Harry asked, eating his doro wot with reckless abandon. Being married to Ginny meant being prepared for any type of food, ever since she'd toured the world while playing for the Holyhead Harpies.

"No." Hermione answered. "I even asked her, but she said she'd never heard of him. Merlin knows where she got the skrewt from. And where it ran off to once she lost control."

"It ran off?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows. "Should I be alerting Krowerby over in the Pest Advisory Bureau?"

"No you should not." Hermione answered. "I mean, it's one blast-ended skrewt, how dangerous could it be?"

Harry mumbled something Hermione couldn't quite make out.

"What was that?" She pressed and Harry shrugged.

"Nothing. So Gin, you went to see your mum?" Harry shifted the subject smoothly and Hermione let it drop, happy for the change in topic anyway.

"Yep." Ginny wiped her mouth with her napkin and nodded. "She was happy to see the boys, and even watched them for a few hours so I could go shopping with Luna. She said she wished you'd come, Harry." Ginny looked pointedly at her husband, his ears turning red at the comment. He didn't respond. "Course she's seen enough of _this_ one lately to get her fill of this group." Ginny nodded toward Ron, whose eyes shot up at his little sister. He went to kick her under the table but missed, hitting Harry instead.

"Ow!" Harry jumped, looking accusatorily at Ron. Hermione looked between the two, watching Ron move his lips silently at his sister.

"You've been going to the Burrow?" She asked, a funny sort of feeling growing in her belly. "When have you found the time since you've been so busy with work?" Hermione continued, knowing that this pressing would only lead to answers she didn't want to hear but in that moment, she didn't really seem to care.

"Here and there." Ron answered weakly, shooting a glare at Ginny, who raised her eyebrows as she witnessed the beginnings of a fight. Harry put his head in his hand, having grown up around the two and knowing what a fight between them meant.

"So Robards is giving you time off then, is he? When you've been so bogged down with the Malfoy case." Hermione could feel her voice rising and didn't even notice as she began to stand. The others did, though, and began discreetly urging Ron to back down. He swallowed thickly and looked up at Hermione with wide eyes.

"Maybe we should discuss this some other time, yeah?" He pleaded.

"No, I think now is brilliant." Hermione - now fully standing - tossed her napkin onto her plate. "Have you been at your parents' the last few weeks?" Ron nodded meekly. "So those times when you wrote that you couldn't make dinner, or had to cancel plans. It was because you were off with your mummy and daddy?"

"Well what did you expect, Mione?" Ron got defensive, not liking the tone Hermione was taking on. He began to rise too, and Harry and Ginny began clearing the plates hurriedly. "You're off Merlin knows where all hours of the day-"

"I'm at _work_ , Ronald!" Hermione shouted, not even noticing as Ginny cast a Muffliato Charm at her children's bedroom. "Where you _claim_ you are, but you're really off gallivanting around with your family!" In truth, Hermione was angry that Ron had been lying to her, not that he'd been with Molly. She was a little jealous that he still had that relationship, but she supported it fully. Everyone deserved to have their mother.

"You're so wrapped up in what happens to Malfoy - and it seems that you've forgotten what a knob he was to you in school - that you're not even home when I try to visit you!" Ron shouted back, his face turning nearly as red as his hair.

"I'm trying to cure a dying patient!" Hermione yelled back. "Maybe if you did _your_ job and found out who murdered his parents, I would've found a better cure by now and have been done with it all!"

Ron narrowed his eyes, breathing heavily. Hermione stared back with equal fervor, the room deadly silent between them.

"Well I'm so _sorry_ that you don't think I've done a good enough job as an Auror. Maybe you could've done better had you not been a coward and refused the position when it was offered to you with the rest of us."

"Ronald!" Ginny spoke sharply, admonishing her brother.

"No, Ginny, it's all right." Hermione answered evenly, a cold wave washing over her much like a Disillusionment Charm. "He's entitled to his feelings. At least now he's being honest." Hermione glided across the room, retrieving her cardigan from the coat rack that bowed to her as she approached it. She turned back to the room, refusing to look over the scene before her. "This has been an informative evening. I'll write to you, Ginny. Harry." She nodded at the couple - both looking as though a bomb was about to go off - before walking to the fireplace, and Flooing home.

"You're in late." A voice called from the doorway and Hermione looked up, smiling politely at her colleague, Emily Biggerstaff, who worked on the third floor.

"You too." Hermione noted as she stirred ground Dittany into the mixture she was brewing.

"Oh, my son ran into a patch of wild rice and got himself a nice, large rash." Emily explained as she read through the labels on the cabinets. "Came to get him some Goosegrass to chew on."

"Ah." Hermione nodded, returning her eyes to the recipe in front of her. _Once the ground Dittany has dissolved, stir the potion clockwise until it turns periwinkle._

"And your excuse?" Emily made conversation as she continued to dig about the drawers. She worked in Potion and Plant Poisoning, where did Spell Damage keep their stash of Goosegrass?

"Just brewing a potion for a patient." _And avoiding my troubles._ Hermione smiled politely, stirring slowly. The potion shifted to the correct colour and Hermione moved onto the next step. "It takes a week so I thought I'd get a head start." She continued when Emily only stared at her.

"I was going to ask: who comes in on a Wednesday night without good reason?" Emily grinned as she found the right drawer, pulling a small bundle of roots from the drawer. "You know, I should really let him suffer for making such a poor decision." Emily muttered as she looked at the Goosegrass in her hand. "Oh well. Boys will be boys." She smiled at Hermione before disappearing from the room, off to treat - and lecture - her son.

 _Boys will be boys._ Hermione snorted at the idiom. _Her_ boy was certainly being something at the moment, though she didn't think she was likely to brush it off like Emily was doing.

 _Coward_. The word rattled around her head as she chopped fresh Nettle. She had never thought herself a coward. Overly cautious, yes, but never cowardly. For Merlin's sake, hadn't she proved herself when she fought, side by side, with Ron and Harry to take down Voldemort? She certainly didn't feel like a coward when she thought about those nights she ran, staying just out of the reach of Snatchers. Or when she refused to give up any information despite being tortured nearly to death -

Her breath caught in her throat, anger bubbling in her chest. No. She wasn't a coward. And it wasn't being a coward that kept her from becoming an Auror.

"Thought I might find you here."

Annoyance grew in Hermione's stomach. "Go home, Ronald."

"No." Ron was stubborn, and as he stood in the doorway to the room, Hermione shot him an exasperated look, dumping the Nettle into the cauldron. It began boiling.

"I don't want to see you right now." She punctuated every word, placing her hands on her hips when the boiling slowed to a bubble. At least she was done dealing with _that_ for the night.

"And I didn't want to fight." Ron countered. "I didn't want you to find out that I was going to the Burrow more nights than not because I knew you wouldn't react well."

"Shocking that I might not like that my fiancé was lying to me." She dryly retorted, covering her cauldron with a towel before setting it on a shelf to brew for three days. She tucked her potions book under her arm and tried to pass Ron, freezing up when he blocked the doorway.

"Move." She spoke quietly, but Ron didn't listen.

"I'm not going anywhere until we bloody sort this out!" He pulled at the roots of his hair, looking down at the woman he loved. "We can't get into a fight like this because I told you I was working late when I was visiting home. It's just stupid."

Hermione's eyes flashed angrily. "If all of this was a result of your trips to the Burrow, yes, it would be _stupid_ , but it isn't, and maybe it's because I'm a _coward_ , but I refuse to stand in my place of work and let you argue with me!" She pushed past Ron, who followed her as she hurried to the lift to return to her office on the first floor. Ron caught up and got in with her.

"I'm _sorry_ I called you a coward." He tried to reason. "I-I was angry because you accused me of not doing a good job at work."

"Because _you_ accused _me_ of letting my attention shift to Malfoy!"

"It _has_ shifted to Malfoy!" Ron exclaimed, following Hermione as she walked down the empty hall to her office, where she left her potions book and dirty lab robes.

"You asked me to take care of him." Hermione explained plainly, watching Ron's expression closely. "And I took an oath to treat anyone who walks through my doors, no matter how much I like or dislike them. The hex he was on the receiving end of is distinct and uncommon, and I refuse to let you morph what I do for him into having more meaning than my need to treat a patient with a rare case. You should know better than any that my interest in Malfoy extends as far as his injury is concerned." A small pang made Hermione realise she wasn't being completely honest, but Ron wouldn't understand that the tenderness she felt for Draco came from a place of empathy, not affection. He would see it as a betrayal.

"I'm sorry." Ron said, looking to Hermione for reassurance. "'Spose I was just jealous." He mumbled and Hermione sighed, knowing it was her turn to comfort Ron.

"I suppose you were. I forgive you." She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his middle, letting Ron rest his head on her shoulder as he hugged her back. When the two parted, Hermione let him kiss her, recognising a pattern: things would stew until they reached a head, at which point one of them would apologize and make up with some form of intimacy.

As she lay in Ron's bed that night, Hermione felt nothing but bitterness at the thought that her life had been reduced to such an unhealthy cycle. Turning over, she pulled the sheets up to her chin and closed her eyes tightly, willing sleep to come. Like most nights as of late, it didn't.

* * *

 _"And you?" He asked. "Don't you have a life to live outside of caring for me?"_

 _Hermione looked at Draco and squinted as though she was thinking terribly hard about something. Draco didn't understand the look - a first for someone raised to read people - but it was unsettling, an emotion he wasn't familiar with being on the receiving end of._


	6. Chapter 6

**Alright so life's getting insane which is why this update has taken so long. I'm sorry. But the long chapter makes up for it, right? Right?**

 **Thank you for all the support and feedback! I'm glad to hear I'm doing a better job; while I'm writing this for fun, I do want to improve because it makes be a better writer and allows me to write a better story for all of you. Please tell me more because I want to know how all of you are feeling about it! I get a little rush when I read your reviews.**

 **Also, the preview of the next chapter at the end of this one is a little taste of how crazy chapter 7 will be. Maybe your words will get me through finishing it so I can get the chapter out sooner ;)**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

The day of Draco's first treatment, Hermione cleared her afternoon, knowing not how long the process would take. All that had been outlined in the notes had been that she'd have to knead the contents of the cauldron into the skin until it was all absorbed. Given that there was nearly a litre of potion, Hermione imagined it was going to take a while.

Admittedly, she didn't mind. Treating Draco meant getting to leave work early and satisfy her curiosity about how well she'd brewed the potion. And it meant she could check in on how he was doing, but that part she wouldn't confess.

Hermione ate lunch in her office, avoiding any questions she would receive if she'd gone up to the tearoom on the fifth floor. Several other healers had found out about her secret patient, and all of them had questions; how did he survive, did he really bear the Dark Mark, the list went on and on. Those who actually worked in Spell Damage were miffed that Hermione had been given the job, quietly claiming that it was nepotism that earned her the position. Hermione supposed it was true. Harry and Ron trusted Hermione with their lives, and Harry had insisted that she continue to care for Draco since Ron had pulled her into the case that first night. The remarks did sting a little, though. Hermione was knowledgeable and resourceful, and had Draco been left under the care of any of the Healers in Spell Damage, she wasn't certain he would still be alive. Not that she would say that to any of her colleague's faces.

At precisely one, Hermione shed her lime green work robes (she refused to wear such a luminous garment in the presence of her former bully) to reveal a muggle jumper and trousers, took her jar of potion and bag of medical supplies, and went to the Apparition point on the ground floor, Disapparating to Malfoy Manor. Like before, Draco met her at the gates, and in the daylight, the property looked even more rundown than she remembered.

"Still looking to snag that Groundskeeper position, eh Granger?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow when Hermione scrunched her nose at him.

"No, but I'm beginning to think you might want to push through the interviews and just pick someone before anything else dies." Hermione walked through the open gate, falling into step with Draco. It was odd - she noted - that she was already so comfortable in his presence. He was still the spoilt little boy she'd known in school, constantly expecting things to go his way, but the malicious nature of his anger seemed to have calmed. Perhaps it was enough to reassure Hermione that he wouldn't aimlessly lash out and resort to calling her names. Or worse, should the desire arise. They walked together in silence, and it was Hermione's nosiness that instigated a conversation.

"Has there been any change in your parents' case?" It was brash and likely bound to offend Draco, but Hermione had spent the last week avoiding Ron's company, and as a result, she'd received no updates on the secret Floo, the murders, or the missing limb.

"Potter's passed the Floo along to some analyst, Quizenberry I think his name was, claiming he was the leading expert on tracking and examining the use of Floos that aren't government monitored. Said they're outside the scope of what Aurors do and he needed a professional to do the work for him." Draco smirked a little at the memory. "I think it might've killed Potter a little. Having to hand something over because he couldn't do it himself."

Hermione rolled her eyes, resisting the urge to slap Draco across the arm. They weren't that chummy.

"Do they have any leads?" She continued, trying to gauge Draco's reactions to her questions.

"Shouldn't you know that?" He asked, a wave of indifference crossing his eyes. "Potter and Weasley are _your_ friends. They tell you everything, don't they?"

"Not about cases." Hermione justified, knowing that if she asked, both boys would tell her anything she wanted to know about any work they'd ever done, but since she wasn't speaking to Ron, that meant talking to Harry, who was busy raising two children in addition to his work; she couldn't bother him with something he would find to be trivial.

"Then we're in the same boat." At her look of confusion, Draco elaborated. "Any question I've asked has been answered with a noncommittal explanation about how they're working with what they have, the case is unique, the usual excuses. It's utter tosh if you ask me. They just don't have any answers and refuse to admit that's the case."

"Well it _is_ unique." Hermione noted as they walked up the grand staircase and down the familiar path to Draco's office. "Even your injury is unique. I cannot tell you how many medical journals I had to read through to even find a similar case."

"And I'm certain you found it to be such a chore." Draco smiled, knowing exactly how happy Hermione was to find herself buried in books. He'd witnessed the enthusiasm more than once while they were at Hogwarts. There were nights he'd found her in the library during his rounds as prefect, books stacked in precarious towers around her as she slept, her face jammed into the center of whatever she was reading at the moment. He had never bothered waking her - mostly due to the fact that he wasn't allowed to dock a fellow prefect house points for being out after hours, which took away the fun of it - but the image of Hermione like that - her harpy qualities masked by sleep, bushy hair swallowing her petite features - it was distinct and unlikely to ever disappear from his mind.

"I never said it was a chore." Hermione replied coyly, knowing she'd rather enjoyed the task, both for its intellectual pursuit and its ability to allow her to ignore the problems present in her own life.

When Hermione entered the office this time, she noted that the desk and one chair had been covered with sheets, a pillow set at the far end of the desk.

"Thrump was insistent that this all stay very sanitary," Draco started, "and he wasn't certain if you'd like me lying down or seated upright so he prepared both."

"Lying down." Hermione said, gesturing to the flat surface. "The potion has a low viscosity; I'll have an easier time keeping it from running all over the place if you lie down."

With a nod, Draco shut the door behind him and approached the desk, noting that again, Hermione busied herself with her belongings as he unbuttoned his shirt. He appreciated that, he supposed. It's not as though he'd wanted her to see him in an undressed state, the least she could do as a professional was make it seem clinical.

When Draco had removed his right sleeve and tucked his shirt to his left side, he climbed onto the top of his desk, scoffing under his breath. He was an adult, damn it, and here he was crawling about the place he worked because he'd been caught off guard by some intruder. It was demeaning, to say the least; he was a Malfoy.

Hermione produced the jar of potion and when Draco saw it, he actually laughed a full-bodied laugh. Hermione stared at him awkwardly as he propped himself up, redness tinting his pale cheeks as he continued to laugh.

"And just what is so funny?" She asked, putting a hand on her hip while the other held the jar precariously.

" _That_." Draco said between breaths, pointing at the container filled with a translucent, powder blue liquid. "Please tell me _that's_ all four doses."

"No, it isn't. It's one." Hermione retorted, turning her nose up at Draco's exhibition of rather juvenile behavior. He sobered at the statement.

"So then do you pour it on and wipe it off?" He asked, not liking the glint in Hermione's eye as she approached the desk, setting the jar by Draco's hip. She pulled up his leather chair and plopped down in it, shoving her sleeves up her wrists and onto her forearms.

"It dissolves into the skin. I hope you brought some reading to do while I work." She opened the container and dipped her hand in, taking a small scoop into her cupped hand, and slapping it down onto the pink mark on Draco's side. He yelped at the frigid liquid and glared heavily at Hermione.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" He grumbled, leaning back and letting Hermione beginning prodding the mixture into his skin. Ten circles, then fifteen back and forth strokes; continue the cycle until it absorbs, the book had said. She followed the directions closely, returning Draco's glare as she switched to the strokes.

"It's almost like you read my mind." Hermione deadpanned. "There's nothing I wanted to do more with my afternoon than give Draco Malfoy a massage."

"Then you should be a little more gentle." Draco admonished, wincing as Hermione collected another small bit of potion and clapped it down on his skin. "This hardly resembles what I would consider a massage. Hey!" He yelped as Hermione increased the pressure of her small fingers into his side, rubbing at his ribs with bruising force. "Isn't this consider patient abuse?"

She shot him a look and reached her hand that wasn't in use out behind her, a book flying off the shelf and into her grasp. She placed it on Draco's chest, raising her eyebrows at him. "Something else to focus on."

Draco picked up the book and read the title, snorting. " _House-Elves & Self-Hatred_. Was that an intentional move?"

Hermione didn't answer and instead continued to knead and rub the potion into Draco's stomach, having barely made a dent in the contents of the jar. She'd be there all night if she didn't get moving. The work was decidedly tedious yet rhythmic, allowing Hermione to get lost in her thoughts. She wondered if Draco was handling his parents' deaths as well as he was projecting. He'd seem to lose himself that first night she'd come to the manor, or at least let himself fall into a drunken stupor as a method of coping. And his mother. He was angry for his mother. Was he still? Was he heartbroken? Resigned? At which stage of grief was he? Did any of that grief extend to his father?

"So is your knack for wandless magic broad, or reserved only for finding books when you don't want to move from your chair?" Draco drawled, engaging Hermione after what must have been an hour of work. Her eyes flicked up to him but he wasn't looking at her, his brow knit with deep interest in what he was reading. Hermione looked back to her work.

"It does come more naturally for that which I have an inherent desire." She answered honestly, slipping into educator mode as she had done so often with the boys during their days at Hogwarts. "It's like with nonverbal spells, really. Some just come more naturally and work more effectively without requiring the concentration - mental and emotional - needed to enact them. Accio is definitely one of the simpler, though I find myself partial to Episkey or Tergeo, but I think that stems from my work. What kind of healer would I be if I couldn't perform the basics without my wand? Interestingly enough, I've found that Tergeo - quite helpful for assessing what injuries there really are underneath all the blood - works miraculously while under duress; peculiar given the nature of wandless magic, but noteworthy for healing." When Hermione looked back up, she found that Draco had abandoned whatever had interested him so much in his book, and was instead watching her closely, a guarded expression in his eyes. She couldn't identify the look, but it made her redden from embarrassment. She'd been rambling.

"I'm sure you already know all this." Hermione altered the course of her tangent. "You excelled at nonverbal spells in school, wandless magic must come to you the same way." She busied herself with another handful of potion.

"No." Draco's voice was soft but clear, and at his answer, Hermione's hands stilled and she looked up at him. "I only excelled at nonverbal spells because I'd been practising before the school year ever began. I was expected to have the skills of an adult the moment I took on the burdens of one."

Draco refused to speak openly of his time under Voldemort's reign, especially his sixth year. The decisions he made during that time were irredeemable and haunted his every waking moment, haunting many of his sleeping moments as well. Things hadn't been too bad at school, save for Snape's watchful eyes trailing his every move, but those moments when he was granted contact with home - they were hell. The Dark Lord never ceased work, constantly feeding Draco thoughts and actions he believed the boy should do while at Hogwarts, and the consequences if he didn't...one might think the threats idle, as none were acted upon, but coming from a man as powerful and unbalanced as Voldemort meant each was as frightening as the last. He had the ability to enact any one of the dangerous methods of intimidation he used against Draco, and the knowledge that the tiniest step out of line meant everything as Draco knew it would end was daunting.

The letters from his mother were the worst. He was breaking her heart, and each reassuring little comment she wrote only made it all the worse when he went back to doing the Dark Lord's bidding. _You're stronger than you know, Draco. You're greater than your father has ever been. You're my son, Draco, and I love you._ Each message had been run by Voldemort before making its way to Draco so they had to be carefully written, but Draco knew what she'd meant: he was better than what he had allowed himself to do and she forgave him for it.

She was wrong, of course, but it was a nice sentiment.

"I could teach you, if you like." Hermione offered, her hands stilling when she realised what she'd said. She didn't really want to help Draco, did she? Yes, she could tell what torment he was putting himself through - though she didn't know the extent of it - and she didn't like to watch others suffer, especially when she was so familiar with the feeling, but to help Draco Malfoy learn something new; the fifteen year old that still lived inside her laughed. Draco recognised the significance of her proposal and didn't take it lightly. It was an unspoken olive branch, an outreached hand offering help to a fallen soul, and it was being extended from one of the heroes of the war to an ex-Death Eater.

"Imagine it." He said with a small smirk. "The brightest witch of our age providing private lessons to me. Snape would be rolling in his grave if he could hear it."

Hermione let out a short giggle at that, knowing Draco was right. "I like to think he'd condone your furthering of your education, accepting that just _maybe_ I would be a good tutor."

"Right." Draco rolled his eyes. "Yes, that's definitely what the Snape I knew would've thought. That 'insufferable know-it-all' insult was just to mask his true feelings about how brilliant you are."

"I knew it!" Hermione jested, earning a genuine smile, though it faded quickly.

"Maybe you can teach me another time." Draco finally gave her answer. "I have quite the number of affairs that need sorting before I can focus on leisure." He returned to his book and Hermione paused her rubbing, willing herself to ask the question that had been on her mind since their last interaction.

"How are you?" She asked, immediately putting all of her focus into working the potion into his skin. She didn't want to see his reaction, especially if he was offended by her impudence. But she needed to know if he was all right. It was somewhat selfish; she wanted to know if her experience following her parents death - the fear that she hadn't protected those that mattered most to her, the anxiety that there had been a way to prevent it all from happening, the vast, empty hole that plagued her entire being since it had happened - was uniquely hers, or if Draco went through something similar.

"That's a rather loaded question, Granger." Draco's voice was quiet. "My parents were murdered, my assets seized until their case is resolved, my employees treat me as though I'm a shell that's likely to break should they apply pressure in the wrong place, and I've got an irreparable injury that requires the brightest witch of our age to come rub a little ointment on it every so often like I'm a wounded kneazle."

There wasn't hurt, or anger, or even bitterness in his voice, just indifference as if he spoke statement of fact, not passion, and Hermione felt sheepish for even proposing that he wouldn't be all right. She'd seen the way he was able to correct whatever emotion he was going through as though it was a pesky gnat buzzing around his head, and all he needed to do to squelch it was swat it away. It was an impressive skill - one that likely came in handy when playing a game of poker - but it hardly meant that he was all right. He could be suffering from pain associated with the hex, for all Hermione knew, and he wouldn't let anyone know even that.

"I wouldn't compare you to a kneazle." Hermione lightened her mood, knowing Draco wasn't going to answer any question she had that easily. "That's unfair to the kneazle."

Draco stretched one eyebrow up. "You know they say war changes people, and I think it's doubly true for you, Granger. I never remember you being so childish with your insults in school."

"That's not fair." Hermione played along, taking another handful of potion into her fist. "I called you a cockroach once; I think comparing you to a different animal is on par."

"Par?"

"Muggle saying." Hermione explained. "But I think you might be distracting from the fact that you know I'm right."

"I might be." Draco conceded, letting the subject drop. Hermione followed his lead and fell into silence, returning to focussing on the potion and her efforts at getting it to absorb into Draco's skin. Secretly, she was gentler with her movements now, aware that Draco was avoiding her question, but she didn't let it deter her from getting her work done. After all, she was a professional, and feeling badly for the patient would never affect her quality of work.

It was beginning to get dark when Hermione poured the remainder of the potion onto Draco's stomach, his skin nearly resistant to the copious amount of liquid it had taken in in the past hours. Finally pleased with the level of absorption, Hermione leaned back in the chair, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Merlin, she was tired. Her hands were pruny, her hair was beginning to frizz, and her fingers were numb from the constant work they'd been doing. She was ready to go home and take a nice bath before crawling into bed and starting her day anew in the morning.

"That's it for tonight." Hermione spoke for the first time following their conversation hours prior, looking up at Draco, who had discarded his book on the table and was already halfway sitting up and redressing. "I'll begin the second batch tomorrow so it should be ready by next Thursday, if you're free then."

"I should be." Draco buttoned up his shirt and slid off the desk into a standing position. "I don't have many extracurricular hobbies." Draco stared at Hermione as she began packing her bag with the empty bottle. "And you?" He asked. "Don't you have a life to live outside of caring for me?"

Hermione looked at Draco and squinted as though she was thinking terribly hard about something. Draco didn't understand the look - a first for someone raised to read people - but it was unsettling, an emotion he wasn't familiar with being on the receiving end of.

"Even if I do have a life outside of you, it's one night a week." She answered, pulling her bag over her shoulder.

"And the nights you need to brew the potion, assuming you're not getting paid to treat a patient that's not in your specialty." Draco pressed as he followed her out of the office and toward the foyer.

"True enough." Hermione nodded, noticing Draco was working his way closer to the truth than she was frankly comfortable with. She couldn't mask that emotion from Draco, and in a quick moment of feeling guilty, Draco met her honesty with some of his own.

"I'm fine." He spoke, and Hermione looked over her shoulder, furrowing her brow. "To answer your earlier question." He justified. "There have been moments where I'm not, but I can't dwell on them, so I'm fine."

Hermione slowed to a stop, processing what he said and Draco breezed past her, refusing to discuss the issue any further. He wasn't interested in commiserating and that disappointed Hermione, but she was willing to take what she could get, even if it meant only a grain of truth hours after the fact. On her way out the door, Hermione, paused, turning back to face Draco as he stood in the doorway.

"I've heard talking about it helps." She spoke, chewing on her lip as she thought. "Not that I've ever tried it, but that's what everyone tells me. Thrump might like to hear what his master has to say." Brown eyes met grey and Hermione shrugged, waving her hand once as she turned again and walked down the pathway to the Apparition point just outside the gate, leaving Draco to wonder just what he had gotten himself into.

* * *

 _"I don't care if it sounds ridiculous to you, Hermione." Ron blustered. "You've been obsessing over Malfoy from the moment I dragged you into the case, and since then, I've gotten none of your attention or care, and I'm supposed to be the one you love, but instead of spending your time with me, you're choosing to spend it with Malfoy. I get it. You choose him."_


	7. Chapter 7

**Don't hate me. I love you. Blame this slow publish on the writer's block, yeah? T** **his is the big ol' chapter where shit _really_ goes sideways, so I wanted to do it right.**

 **Thank you for all the support and interest! I love hearing from you all, so keep it coming!**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

It was Sunday, and while Sundays were usually Hermione's favorite day, she spent the entire morning chewing on her lip, staring at the letter that sat on her kitchen table.

 _Granger,_

 _Tonight won't work for me. I'll be in touch._

 _~Draco Malfoy~_

The note had clearly been written in a rush, Draco's normally perfect calligraphic writing was sloppier than usual (albeit it was still neater than most would produce), and the owl delivering the letter had disappeared the moment Hermione had accepted the envelope, not even waiting for a response or even a bit of food. It had come in the morning before she'd left for work on Thursday, which meant it had been three days now that Herimone had been waiting for Draco's follow up note indicating that he was ready to move onto the next round of treatment. So - like she had always excelled at - Hermione sat in her flat and read journal after journal, book after book, whatever kind of text she could find about what could happen to a patient if they didn't complete the mortuus textus hex potions in a timely manner. By noon, all she had learned was that the potion did indeed spoil if not used within four days, and required low temperatures to slow the process, so Hermione supposed the foul weather was indeed a bit of a blessing, though since she'd brought the potion home for the weekend in case Draco reached out to her, it meant that she couldn't light the fireplace to warm up her home.

 _Damn Malfoy, thinking I'm on his schedule, some of us do have lives,_ Hermione thought angrily as she stared at the jar of potion for what felt like the millionth time, looking for signs of dark purple wisps, a sign the mixture was turning bad. She sighed when she noted that there seemed to be one or two, but she couldn't tell if it was a trick of the light so she refused to let the bottle out of her sight for more than a minute lest it all turn purple when she wasn't looking.

At nearly one, the same eagle owl from three days prior flew up to the perch outside the window and tapped at the glass impatiently. Hermione stood and approached, unlocking the window and allowing the bird to fly in, though it seemed to send her a glare when she tried to feed it a treat, turning its face away and lifting its leg as if to say "as if I would bother myself with such an unpleasant show of affection, just let me do my job." Hermione dutifully unwrapped the parchment and sat at the table, reading through the note while the bird settled himself onto the back of one of the wooden chairs.

 _Granger,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well, but knowing you, you're likely sick with worry, and I expect you've been sitting around awaiting my response following my previous message, so I'll get to the point. Are you free tomorrow afternoon? I have cleared my schedule already so I do expect you'll say yes._

 _~Draco Malfoy~_

Hermione glared at his perfect signature and perfect, long letters. The nerve of him to be so very unbothered by the whole process! Who was he to place expectations on Hermione after he'd been the one to postpone!

Hermione snatched a bit of paper and a quill from her coffee table, writing her response angrily.

 _Malfoy,_

 _Not only am I not free tomorrow afternoon, but after completing research related to the shelf life of the potion, I do expect it will be thoroughly spoiled by such a time. I am unaware of whatever side effects there will be from delaying treatment, but I expect there will be some in the time it takes me to brew a new batch._

 _I'll reach out to you when it's finished._

 _Hermione Granger_

Hermione tried to sign her name as intricately as Draco had done with his signature, but much to her annoyance, it wasn't nearly as well executed. She considered rewriting the message, but the bird squawked at her like it knew what she was thinking and it refused to wait for her to rewrite something when it was already written down.

"Oh all right." Hermione muttered, tying the parchment to the owl's leg and shooing it out of the open window. It left haughtily - if that was even possible for a bird - and Hermione trudged into her bedroom, abandoning the souring potion in the kitchen. She changed from her flannel pyjamas she was still wearing despite the late hour into a pair of jeans and a long sleeved shirt, checking herself in the mirror. While it was still hours away, she had agreed to meet Ron at a restaurant in Muggle London, their first meeting since they'd made up two weeks ago. She was nervous, very much so, and now that her mind was off Draco, she let her anxious behavior shift over from illness to relationship worries, which began with how she planned to do her hair. Ron had always commented that he liked her with her hair back, and as a result, she'd learned how to put it up and out of her face, which was how she wore it more days than not. Maybe she should leave it down just to be petty.

No, that's not what this dinner was about. This dinner was about reconnecting with the man she loved, not acting out of resistance to a relationship she had gladly entered years ago. If it made Ron happy, wasn't that enough? Still angry from Draco's letter, Hermione took the clip out her hair with a huff, letting the poufy curls settle around her shoulders defiantly. She supposed one night of leaving her hair down wouldn't kill Ronald, and if it did, well then he wasn't worthy of her presence anyway.

Hermione heard a gush of air from her living room and knit her brow, wondering if Ron had invited himself over before their dinner at six. She stepped out of her bedroom and nearly jumped when she saw a certain blond examining her bookshelves, his back to the room.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Hermione asked tiredly, leaning against the door frame to her room. He turned, clearly taking in her small flat as he looked over the seating area centered around the fireplace, the kitchen space situated under the windows opposite the mantle, and the absolute clutter that covered any flat surface.

"I take it you don't get guests too often." He drawled, raising an eyebrow as Hermione snatched a pair of pumps and stockings off the kitchen table, tossing them into her bedroom blindly before shutting the door behind her.

"Is that what you are?" She laughed humourlessly. "Could've sworn you were an intruder. I don't remember inviting you here."

Draco shrugged like his unexpected appearance was nothing important. "You said the potion would go bad by tomorrow, which implies it hasn't yet, so I'm here for treatment."

"And just how did you get in?" Hermione asked, raising a hand when Draco went to point to the fireplace. "No, no, how did you know where to go to get here?"

"You're a very easy woman to locate." Draco said like it was an acceptable answer. When Hermione waited for him to continue, he rolled his eyes. "I have good connections, and you're famous. It would've been more surprising if I _hadn't_ been able to find out where you live."

"It's quite rude to Floo into a stranger's home." Hermione argued, folding her arms across her chest.

"Come now, Granger." Draco smirked, opening his arms in a welcoming gesture. "We're hardly strangers, are we? Why, you've seen me in less clothing than Thrump has, let alone someone who doesn't work for me."

"If that's a gesture of not being a stranger, then I must be quite good friends with a number of my patients." When Draco only stared at Hermione like she knew exactly where her afternoon was headed, Hermione grunted in annoyance and began clearing off her sofa. It didn't take very long, and for that she was grateful, knowing every moment she worked was a moment for Draco to judge her living environment.

"You know you could use magic for that." Draco noted as Hermione hung her trench coat up on the coat rack by the door.

"And _you_ know it's quite disrespectful to Floo into someone's home without their permission, yet here we are." She quipped, walking over to the kitchen sink to wash her hands. "Make yourself comfortable, I suppose." She spoke over her shoulder as she dried her hands, taking the jar over to where Draco was now laying on her couch, his robes draped across the sofa to put a barrier between his body and the aging leather. Hermione sat on the coffee table and unscrewed the lid of the jar, dipping her hand into its contents.

"You know, Thrump might have a field day if he saw the conditions I was getting treated in. Would you like to borrow him some afternoon? He's brilliant with a good mess." Draco spoke as he stared up at the ceiling, his right arm propped behind his head to make room for Hermione to work.

"Oh shut it." She mumbled, still miffed about his stalling of the treatment and sudden appearance in her flat.

Draco listened to Hermione's request and did indeed "shut it," willing to let her work in peace if it meant avoiding the wrath that was Hermione when she got cheeky and defiant. When Draco's leg began to bounce from boredom after only twenty minutes, Hermione sighed and lifted her hand like she'd done during the first treatment, a book unwedging itself from its snug home in one of her overfilled bookcases. She handed it to Draco without looking up from her work and he happily accepted, though he was beginning to think her choice of reading material was intentional, as this time he had been given an autobiography titled _My Life as a Muggle._

It was nearing seven o'clock when Hermione's fireplace flooded alight with green flames for the second time that day, and it was in the moment that she turned away from Draco to see who it was that Hermione remembered her dinner plans. _Ron._ The lanky redhead ducked out from the hearth, shaking his hair clean of soot.

"Ron." Hermione greeted her fiancé, standing up quickly as though she had been caught doing something improper. Perhaps she _had_ been caught, given the date she'd missed, the undressed man on her sofa, and the guilt that rooted itself in her belly.

"You remembered our plans tonight, didn't you?" Ron asked casually, a smile tugging at his lips as he looked up to meet Hermione's eyes, though the expression soured quickly as his eyes slid to that which was behind Hermione.

"Weasley." Draco greeted as he stood, carefully buttoning his shirt over the sticky concoction spread across his ribcage. Ron looked between the two, their faces painting what looked to be a very clear picture; Hermione refusing to look Ron in the eye while Draco looked as cold and as arrogant as ever.

"No." Ron's voice was disbelieving and Hermione immediately recognised the tone he took. She'd heard it all too frequently growing up with the man in front of her. He had a terrible habit of making incorrect assumptions and running with whatever fantasy he'd created in his head, and Hermione knew exactly how this fight was about to play out.

"Ron, you're overthinking this." Hermione began, rounding her coffee table with her hands extended in front of her in an act of reassurance. "He's here for treatment."

"You do that during the week." Ron countered, running a hand through his hair angrily.

"He put me off." Hermione continued, her voice even. She refused to let this situation escalate any further. Not here, in her own home, and not now, in front of Draco Malfoy, of all people. "The potion was about to expire, and he showed up today so I wouldn't have to rebrew it."

"It's true, Weasley." Draco spoke, aware of where this was all heading. "Sent Granger a letter this morning, it's probably still sitting around this mess somewhere."

"Don't you talk about Hermione that way." Ron threatened, pointing fiercely at Draco. Hermione grabbed his extended wrist and pulled him into her bedroom, shutting the door behind them. In her haste, she forgot to cast a Silencing Charm.

"Ron, please -" Hermione began but Ron was beyond reasoning.

"Please, what, Mione?" He bickered. "Even if he _is_ just a patient, we had plans! And instead, you're here with _him_ and you didn't even bother to tell me what was happening!" Ron paced about the small space, clearly trying to hold in whatever rage was about to expel from all his limbs.

"For not reaching out, I'm sorry, but it was unexpected!" Hermione hollered back. "I didn't know he would just show up at my flat expecting care, but what am I to do when I spend a week brewing his treatment and learn that if I delay its use too long, it'll spoil? You can't possibly understand the amount of effort it took to find this cure, and how taxing it's been trying to determine if stalling treatment to rebrew the potion will affect the success of it all!"

"But it's bloody Malfoy!" Ron shouted as though Hermione's missing of the dinner was directly correlated to which patient she was working with.

"And this hex will kill him if I can't administer the treatment!" She dug her hands into her hair frustratedly. "I'm not doing this again! We've already had this discussion, Ronald, and nothing has changed. Do you really think so little of me? That my favor has shifted from you to him just because I missed dinner? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?"

"I don't care if it sounds ridiculous to you, Hermione." Ron blustered. "You've been obsessing over Malfoy from the moment I dragged you into the case, and since then, I've gotten none of your attention or care, and I'm supposed to be the one you love, but instead of spending your time with me, you're choosing to spend it with Malfoy. I get it. You choose him."

An unpleasant moment of deja vu washed over Hermione. She refused to speak at first, processing all that he had said and evaluating what she needed to say. Maybe Ron was right on some level. Maybe he _was_ supposed to be the one she loved, but in that moment, realising she was having the same conversation she'd had when he'd left her and Harry that night in the forest, what she felt wasn't love, but a deep, hollow emptiness, and where she should've felt the need to reassure Ron that he was important to her, she felt only disappointment and loneliness.

"You know you've said that before." Hermione finally spoke, and she tried desperately to keep the tears in her eyes from falling as his expression shifted from anger to confusion. "But what will be your excuse this time? You're not wearing a Horcrux."

She watched bitterly as Ron processed what she said, and grew to remember that night, knowing she was correct. He'd been the one to assume the worst then, and he was doing it this time too. At least _then_ he'd had a powerful, dark magical artefact clouding his emotions.

"Hermione -" Ron quietly began but Hermione stopped him as she put her hand up.

"You know, you left then. Decided that must've been the best for all of us, without a care as to how anyone else felt, and it was only when I told you that I'd chased after you that you felt any remorse for what you had put us through. I don't want that again. I don't want to have to keep having these disagreements only for us to have to find a way to put the pieces back together after the fact. We're adults, Ronald, and we're acting like we did when we were children."

"What are you trying to say?" Ron asked, though he knew exactly what she was trying to say, he only didn't want to hear it. Hell, Hermione didn't want to _say_ it. She'd never imagined herself having to express such a sentiment; she just assumed that at some point she'd marry Ron, no fuss about it. She'd be content enough to pop out a few of his children and return to working when they began their education at Hogwarts just like she had. That was the quaint image she'd had when she was seventeen, but like everything around her, nothing quite matched up like it was supposed to.

"Maybe we need to take a break." Hermione forced out, bringing her lower lip into her mouth the moment the final word left her lips. For as much as she felt; the frustration, the resentment, the anguish, the love, whatever kind of love it may have been...it had been easy to say. That feeling of ease disappeared the moment she looked into his eyes. They were filled with hurt and bewilderment, and Hermione knew if she didn't stand her ground, she was likely to fall back into that pattern of forgiveness, and that's not what she wanted for herself anymore. She wanted to feel like she wasn't wasting the life she had by holding herself back with the same routine she'd allowed herself to play into for eight years.

She could sense Ron trying to put together a response; she knew him nearly as well as he knew himself and it was clear he desperately wanted nothing more than to make this right, but he knew Hermione quite well too, and sensed that this wasn't some trivial matter he could apologise for and all would return to normal. This was deeper than that and if he wished to fix this, it would take far more than an apology, if anything would fix it at all. The notion that there might be no fixing it scared Ron immensely and rather than say something to possibly further disrupt the situation, he nodded wordlessly before stepping past Hermione and out of the bedroom, the Floo roaring to life as Ron left. Finally alone, Hermione allowed herself a moment to close her eyes, the tears she'd been holding back pressing between her lashes and down her cheeks. But they weren't tears of loss, but tears of realisation. She'd done it. She'd broken Ron's heart, and there was no guarantee things were going to be all right again. She choked out a sob and felt herself slide to the ground, pulling her knees to her chest as she leaned back against her bed.

It terrified her that she'd hurt someone she cared so much about, that she had no way of knowing if she'd ever be able to fix it, and that in the possible final moments of their relationship, she'd chosen to throw in Ron's face that he was no better of a man than he had been at seventeen. It had been cruel of her, to torment him like that.

There was the quiet clicking of footsteps coming into the room for a brief moment before Draco appeared in front of Hermione, blurry from her tears but clearly trying to gauge her current actions.

"Granger," he murmured quietly, knowing that now wasn't the time to be inciting conversation, but what the hell was he supposed to do? He'd heard the fight; he'd understood most of what had transpired between the two of them, and it was clear from the way Hermione had broken down that she needed some form of reassurance, but Draco didn't know how to give her what she needed or if it was even his place to give her any support. He'd nearly left after he'd silently watched Ron Floo out of her home, but something wouldn't let him go when he heard that first whimper coming from the bedroom. He wouldn't admit it to himself, but he recognised the sound from his own past, from the evenings he spent crying to that ghost in the girls lavatory about Voldemort, from the nights he woke from dreams of Nagini devouring people in his home, from the first moment he'd spent alone after finding out both of his parents were dead. He knew what that sound meant and he couldn't abandon someone going through such torment.

Either Hermione understood that Draco didn't know how to comfort her, or she didn't even pause to think about what she was doing, but in just a moment's time, Hermione lunged herself forward and into Draco's personal space, burying her face into his shirt as she cried. Stunned, Draco fell back onto his bum from his crouched position and extended his hands out, waiting for Hermione to let go, but when she only twisted her little fingers into his shirt and pressed her face further into his chest, Draco let out the breath he was holding and hesitantly placed a hand on her back, pressing the other onto the floor behind him to keep them propped up. Despite the fact that it was likely to ruin his poplin shirt, he let her cry, figuring that the only way for her to get over whatever pain she was dealing with was for her to work it out on her own while he provided whatever support he could, even though it felt drastically minimal. It was an unfamiliar method, Draco conceded - one he would never fully understand - but if it worked to calm down the witch currently wound up in his grip, then he was willing to be the one to take on her suffering, even if it was only a temporary fix.

* * *

 _"You're better off without him." Draco noted firmly, hoping the sentiment would matter enough for Hermione to understand that she really was overreacting to the situation. "Nobody's better off with the Weasel, even the Weasel himself."_


	8. Chapter 8

**I need to get a handle on my schedule. I try to write a little every night but schoolwork is keeping me busy! I'm sorry and I love you for sticking with me!**

 **Thank you for all the support in the reviews! I'm glad to know that you're enjoying what I've written, so THANK YOU for giving me a chance. I like to think my writing's already begun to improve from the first chapter to this one, and I hope to go back with what I've learned and do a little editing, but for now I'm focusing on moving forward!**

 **As always, please review and let me know what you think. I love hearing what I can improve upon, and the complimentary ones fuel my writing :)**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

When the cries reduced to whimpers, and the tears reduced to sniffles, Hermione unknotted her hands from Draco's shirt and scooted back until she was sitting across from him, her back pressed against the edge of her bed. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and began swiping at the tears that stained her face and neck with the cuff of her cotton shirt, but Draco had already summoned a box of tissues from her bathroom and handed it to her, leaning back against the wall when she accepted the box. She immediately pulled three from it, drying her skin. They were silent as they sat there, Hermione still processing what she had just done to Ron, Draco trying to determine what the next step in all of this was. She had calmed - at least enough that she was willing to sit by herself instead of clinging to him like a lost child - but it was clear she was teetering on the edge of another breakdown. It was unsettling to Draco; such a state of imbalance was not common in his world (even the house elves knew to reserve their self inflicted punishment until they were back in their quarters, away from judgement and disgust) and if he had his way, Draco would've stood and retreated to his home in that moment, but with the appearance of Ron, Hermione had failed to finish the treatment of Draco's wound, and a Malfoy was nothing if not self-serving.

"You're better off without him." Draco noted firmly, hoping the sentiment would matter enough for Hermione to understand that she really was overreacting to the situation. " _Nobody's_ better off with the Weasel, even the Weasel himself." Draco continued, trying to capitalise on what he hoped would come across as a quip rather than a dig. Hermione laughed in a way that sounded more like a wounded pygmy puff than someone genuinely finding something humorous. She wiped her nose with a clean tissue and looked down at her hands as they fiddled with the box.

"And you're not a biased source, or anything." She responded quietly, but Draco was willing to take it if it meant she didn't burst out crying again.

"Well clearly I'm biased but that doesn't mean I'm incorrect." Draco continued, adjusting his sitting position. "It was well known in school that Weasley's Quidditch career was based on nepotism and his grades inflated by your swotty eagerness and insatiable urge to educate others." Draco nodded his head toward Hermione. "Even his career is based off efforts put in largely by Potter and you." Draco didn't particularly enjoy admitting that the Golden Trio's successes were immense, but he would be blind not to recognise it. They were praised everywhere they went, everything they did was written about in the Daily Prophet, and even children who barely knew of either war idolised them because their parents told them stories of the brave heroes who saved wizarding Britain. There was even a holiday to celebrate the defeat of Voldemort, and the three responsible for making it happen were honoured with a ball. Bloody excessive, if you asked Draco. No one needed that much praise, and in Weasley's case, it had clearly gone to his head that he was part of such an important movement.

"He's not as bad as you make him out to be." Hermione argued weakly, hardly wanting to spend the bulk of her energy defending her once best friend. Would he let her call him that anymore? Would she still want to call him that? "It's insecurity that makes him seem less than. He's smart, and kind, and quite a good keeper when he's confident. His foibles don't define him."

"Please, Granger, don't make puppy eyes at the thought of Weasley while I'm here. I might be sick." Draco lamented, clutching a hand to his stomach. Hermione smiled at this - a genuine smile - and Draco felt a funny feeling tighten in his stomach. Pride, he considered, in having been the one to make Hermione smile so quickly after what had been a clearly devastating interaction. He didn't dwell on it, the reason he was still at her flat working its way to the front of his mind.

"Not that I don't thoroughly enjoy expressing my dislike for Weasley, but I fear that there's a jar of potion out there that hasn't been finished quite yet, and if I heard through your flimsy door clearly, it's rather important that I finish each and every treatment."

Hermione didn't speak at first, having realised that there had been not an ounce of privacy to the conversation she'd had with Ron, and for a moment, Draco wondered if he'd crossed some unspoken line. Had he seemed too narcissistic with his request? Had his effort at providing consolation come across as inauthentic because he needed something out of her?

"Right." Herimone finally answered, and with a nod and a final swipe of tissue against her face, she stood and left her bedroom, Draco following behind her cautiously. "If you'll return to the couch, I'll get cleaned up." Hermione said as she walked to the kitchen sink, washing her hands thoroughly. Draco did as he was told and uncovered his side once more, adjusting his position on the sofa when Hermione approached. She sat and stuck the jar of potion between her legs, glad to see there were only a few more scoops left. If she was lucky, she could finish within the half hour.

She worked in silence, Hermione refusing to discuss what had just happened, and Draco refusing to tread into such waters. He'd meant it when he'd said she was better off without him; Ron needed someone who was willing to entertain his ego and follow his lead while Hermione needed someone who would challenge her, someone who was her equal.

Not that Draco had ever given it much thought, of course.

When Hermione finished with the potion, she wiped her hands clean and glanced at Draco before picking up the jar and taking it to the sink. "I'll begin the next potion tomorrow should you promise not to stall me again." She spoke, rinsing the glass bottle of its remnants.

"I think I can manage that." Draco answered as he buttoned up his shirt. He picked up his robes from where they lay under him and shook them out before sliding his arms through the sleeves.

"Why did you postpone in the first place?" Hermione finally asked the question she had been aching to know the answer to since she'd received his first post. She couldn't imagine much that was more important than receiving treatment, let alone postponing it multiple days.

"Some things had to be done." Draco responded cryptically, and Hermione turned to look over her shoulder at him, though his body language didn't give off any answers. He was an expert at that, and the scrunching of Hermione's nose signalled to Draco that he'd done a proper job at putting her off. Good, he thought. They were getting too chummy for his likes anyway, all of this bonding and sharing was better off left in Hermione's bedroom locked away with whatever enjoyment he had gotten out of comforting Hermione in her time of need.

"You'll come to the manor next Tuesday then?" Draco continued, adjusting his collar. "Lest I avoid treatment again and actually die this time." He said it with humour in his voice, but it was clear from Hermione's expression that this was no joking matter.

"I apologise that you had to hear that." She spoke quietly, fiddling with the jar in her hands. "It's not that you're dying, it's just that I don't know enough the hex to say that you _won't_ die without healing it. Not that that's all that much more reassuring, is it?" Hermione chewed her lip, knowing she was only making matters worse. She'd let a patient overhear an overly dramatic interpretation about his health, only to worry him further by stating that the hex would kill him to his face. After going completely mental and having a good cry into his shirt.

 _Merlin_ , she needed a smacking around. Or at least a long holiday.

"I assumed as much." Draco shrugged, though the sloppy motion looked formal on him. "That morning at St. Mungo's taught me that this hex wasn't something to be unconcerned with. Your hyperbolic statement didn't affect me."

"Well aren't you just the picture of calm." Hermione said dryly, wondering if his wording was a dig at her. It would've been a distinctly Malfoy characteristic, so she didn't rule it out as she slowly guided him toward the fireplace, encouraging his departure, as there was nothing more she needed in that moment than some time to process her thoughts. Alone.

"Oh!" Draco started, turning away from the fireplace to face Hermione. She sighed quickly before plastering on a smile, waiting for whatever was so important that he must tell her in that moment.

"Yes?" She asked tightly.

"Potter's Floo analyst is brilliant. He found the enchantment that was limiting my ability to adjust the approved list of Floo users, so you've been approved. No more Apparating to the gates and judging my gardening."

"That's...wonderful." Hermione nodded, her mood turning at the topic. "Does that mean they've been able to determine who used it that night?"

"Not yet, no." Draco calmed his enthusiasm, the conversation returning to territory he wasn't particularly interested in discussing. He hadn't talked to Thrump, as Hermione had suggested, he hadn't spoke to anyone about the thoughts that had been racing through his mind since his parents had died. They were mostly surrounding the desperate need to find the murderer and kill him, but then the memory of the six months he spent in Azkaban following the war were a reminder that if he wasn't careful, he would end up back in one of those cells. Then came the nightmarish reminders of what those six months had been like. Draco was lucky, he supposed, that the Dementors weren't under Ministry control during his stint. Not that he believed the Ministry really had them under control now, of course; the statement that the Dementors returned to guarding Azkaban only a year after their shift in loyalty to the Dark Lord seemed strange, given that his mother had been given double that sentence for her participation as a Death Eater, despite the fact that she bore no Mark. It hardly seemed fair, but since when had the Ministry acted in a way that was fair?

"They can track the log for the registered Floo with no issues, but the unregistered one is rather tricky, apparently." Draco finally answered, having realised Hermione was watching him silently, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Hm." Hermione furrowed her brow and folded her arms, trying to rack her brain for some pertinent piece of information. "I read once that dark magic carries traces of its user with it because it requires a bit of the witch or wizard's soul to perform." Hermione thought back to all the books she'd scoured for information about Horcuxes, and all the information she'd found about everything but. "Don't know if that applies to magic that isn't dark, of course. Using a Floo doesn't constitute any harm, but its being untraceable is inherently deceitful."

Draco mulled over the thought and knit his brow. It was an idea, one Quizenberry hadn't mentioned, which made it one worth investigating. He added it to his mental checklist of things to look into.

"Anyway, you should go home." Hermione suggested as they stood there, wishing to only be alone. "Eat something. It'll help with any discomfort due to the potion." She clarified when Draco gave her a dirty look. "No, really. It's trying to heal any flesh that's decaying, and that's done by replacing what's necrotising with healthy, new tissue. The more we treat it, the deeper it goes, which can cause nausea, so a proper solution would be to eat. Does Thrump have food for you?"

"Yes, Thrump has food for me." Draco smiled at her concern. It was Thrump's job, after all, to look after Draco and make sure he was well kept. Narcissa had asked it of the house elf just before she'd left for Azkaban, and even after her return, Thrump refused to take care of any other person until he made certain Draco had what he needed. Draco found it taxing, to be so heavily looked after when no one had done it for him since he had been five - at the demand of Lucius, who indicated that Draco was not to be softened by care and support - but Narcissa took comfort in knowing that someone was there to take care of her son in the event that he was ever left alone.

"Good." Hermione nodded succinctly. "Then let him feed you."

They stood there a moment, both silently trying to work out what came next. Hermione desperately needed to be by herself, she needed far more than just a moment to work out all that had happened with Ron that evening, but she also didn't want to turn Draco away. He seemed lonely, or maybe just alone, but whatever it was, she didn't want to force him away if he was trying to call out to her. Draco, on the other hand, had a similar yet opposite thought process. To him, Hermione seemed alone and perhaps in want of someone to support her through this trying period, but he knew he wasn't the one to do it. Maybe one of her friends would suffice, but not Draco. No, Draco was good for a moment of support when no one else was available, but he wasn't the person to go to if one needed help. He had too many of his own problems to deal with.

"You should eat too." Draco finally broke the silence. "A whole carton of ice cream is the prescribed dose for a breakup, is it not?" Draco wanted to kick himself when he saw Hermione visibly tense up. He had meant his comment as a joke, something to lighten whatever heavy mood was settling on them, but instead, he'd mucked it up by reminding her of what she was currently dealing with.

"It's not a breakup." Hermione stated, more for herself than Draco. "Just a moment to gather our thoughts."

"Right." Draco conceded. "Then perhaps something of more nutritional value than a vat of ice cream." Again, he awkwardly tried to improve the mood, and this time, Hermione accepted.

"Takeaway it is, then." She laughed hollowly, Draco joining in stiffly.

"Then I'll see you next Tuesday."

"Right." Hermione nodded, walking him to the fireplace. "And no cancelling on me this time." She pointed her finger at him and Draco nodded his chin once.

"I would never think of it. At least not twice." He amended when he saw her eyes narrow. "Goodnight, then."

"Night." Hermione responded, becoming all too aware that in only seconds, she would be alone. As Draco tossed a bit of Floo powder into the fireplace, she considered reaching out to stop him, realising that maybe she didn't want to be alone, but she held back and watched Draco step into the green flames, disappearing into the network.

Finally alone, Hermione lit her fireplace and sat in front of it, the warmth of the flames not seeming to reach her. _It's a moment to gather our thoughts,_ she repeated in her head, _it's not permanent._ But what if it was? What if this betrayal of trust - of love and support - was enough to tear them apart for good? Did she want that? Did she want to live her life separately from Ron's forever? Scarily enough, the idea didn't petrify her; she merely thought of it as a feasible option. She might not have a choice if Ron continued to behave as a child. He might decide for the both of them that enough was enough. If that was the case, there would be nothing she could do to change anything, and like the possibility of breaking up forever, Hermione regarded the idea with little concern. If that was what Ronald chose, then that was what would happen. Nothing would change that. Still, deep down inside, she worried what all of this would do to their friendship. Her words to him, her thoughts about the situation now, would they ever get over it? If they didn't get back together, could they still be friends? Merlin, Hermione hoped so. Ron was one of her best friends, and Hermione couldn't bear the thought of having him cut her out of his life.

Hermione sighed shakily and ran a hand through her hair. When had things gotten so confusing? Only months ago, she would have said she and Ron were well enough and she wouldn't have given Draco Malfoy a second thought. Now - as she sat her on her rug, terribly alone - she mourned the likely loss of one of her dearest friends, yet her mind returned to the ex-Death Eater every so often. How his health was, where he was emotionally, and the newest thought: where had he gone that was so important he had cancelled their treatment? Hermione could tell Draco didn't want her to know where he'd been, that secrecy was nothing new to her, but like the curious creature she was, it made her want to know even more. She'd get him to answer, most likely in six months' time, the way he communicated, but it would be worth it, she could tell. They were more alike than she'd thought as a child, but maybe that was the product of growing up. _Ron could learn a lesson from him_ , Hermione thought bitterly, wondering if things would be different had she seen him grow as they aged.

There was a tapping at the window and Hermione turned and looked, unable to see who it was in the darkness, so she stood and walked to the kitchen, opening the window above the sink. A familiar eagle owl popped inside, shaking itself of the raindrops that had hit it during its flight. Attached to its foot was a miniature basket and a note, which Hermione untied from the bird, who eagerly flew over to the fireplace, settling itself on the ground just before the mantle. It shuddered and adjusted its position until it had sunken into its body, warming itself lazily.

Opening the note first, Hermione read through Draco's note inquisitively.

 _Granger,_

 _Had a funny feeling you weren't really going to eat tonight and since you so demanded my eating, I took the liberty of having Thrump prepare a second dish for you. As the brightest witch of our age, I'm sure you've already noticed that I've used a shrinking charm on the food, so you'll have to return it to its rightful state before consuming it. It shouldn't affect the flavor too much._

 _Draco Malfoy._

 _P.S. Spes, my owl, isn't particularly fond of travelling at night. If it isn't too much of a burden, please let her stay at your home until sunrise. She's quite independent and doesn't require much care._

Hermione refolded the note and set it to her right, taking the wand from her hip and engorged the basket to its normal size, opening the lid. Inside sat a jar of what appeared to be some type of squash soup, a roll of brown bread, and a lemon and herb chicken. She chuckled at the assortment and poured herself a glass of water, taking the basket, along with the proper silverware from her drawer, to her place by the fire. She sat next to Spes, who eyed her tiredly.

"Your owner knows me too well." She said, though the bird only stared at her in response. "Am I that predictable or is he just in tune with me?" She asked and again, Spes gave no sign of a response. Hermione tore a bit of chicken from the dish and placed it in front of Spes, who glanced at the meat with little enthusiasm.

"You know, I'm talking to a bloody owl, the least you could do is show some interest so I don't look completely barmy." She muttered, snatching up the chicken before Spes had time to change her mind. As the owl continued to watch Hermione silently, almost appearing to be waiting for something, Hermione exhaled deeply, placing the plate of chicken on the floor and transfigured her glass of water into a saucer, setting that down too. She stood and took the basket back to the kitchen, placing the jar of soup in the fridge.

"Goodnight, Spes." Hermione spoke to the bird that still refused to look at the food before her, and went into her bedroom, stripping herself of her jeans before crawling into bed, though she wasn't the least bit tired. Her thoughts raced and kept her awake for hours, and it was only the pattering of rain against the glass of her window that finally put her to sleep.

* * *

 _"He's got it all twisted around, Hermione!" Harry argued. "If you two were on the same page, I'd have no issues letting it work itself out, but how will you even get to a point where you can if he's under the impression you're shagging Malfoy?"_

 _Hermione's words caught in her throat and she pointed sharply at Harry. "Harry, even if that were the case, never put it into words." She shook her head much like Molly Weasley did she was disappointed in one of her children. It made Harry grin._


	9. Chapter 9

**So life is hectic and crazy right? I've been trying to write this chapter for so long and I hate that it's taken me this much time to crank it out, but I haven't given up on this story so don't worry about potential abandonment! It won't happen, especially with all of your feedback, wink wink, nod nod.**

 **Not much to say, but I hope to keep chugging along! There's a section I really want to flesh out coming soon so I'm ready to get there! Are you ready too?**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

The next morning, Hermione showered then ate cold soup for breakfast, noting that the chicken she'd left out for Spes had been nearly completely devoured at some point during the night. Spes, of course, gave no indication that she'd eaten anything at all, and when Hermione tied the cleaned and shrunken basket to her leg along with a thank you note for Draco (and a specific note to thank Thrump for his hard work), she flew out the window into the morning sky like nothing had happened. Hermione wasn't insulted by the bird's arrogance, but rather pleased that she'd managed to begin chipping away at whatever walls the animal had put up. Much like Draco, she mused, as she finished getting ready for work. The changes in his behavior toward her had been largely subtle, but waking up that morning with a fresh mind allowed her to think about his actions the night prior. He was worried about her, and Hermione found it endearing and almost sweet, though she'd never thought of using the word to describe Draco Malfoy before that moment.

Hermione Flooed to work, aware that something felt different as she walked to her station, but she couldn't quite put her finger on the feeling. It couldn't have been contentment - after all who could be content after suggesting a break with one's partner of eight years - like she thought it felt, but maybe it was something akin to that. As she settled into her work, Hermione let the curious feeling take her over, secretly thrilled to feel something other than bleakness for the first time in months. There were moments where she wondered if she should feel guilty for feeling so good, but she refused to dwell on them, at least for now.

Just after ten, a Ministry owl flew to Hermione's office window, and she opened it, receiving the letter attached to its foot.

 _Hermione,_

 _It feels like it's been ages since we last got together. Do you have time for lunch with me today?_

 _Harry_

Hermione smiled happily, having felt the same. She'd been so preoccupied with Ron's feelings and Draco's treatment that she missed her friend. She hastily wrote out her reply.

 _Harry,_

 _It does feel that way, doesn't it? Of course I have time for lunch. I can meet you at the cafe across from the Ministry if you're busy with cases._

Hermione paused her writing, realising that little cafe was a common place to eat for the Aurors - she'd found out about it in the first place when she'd gone to lunch with Harry and Ron one day - which meant it was more than likely Ron would also be there for lunch, given that he didn't know how to make anything more complex than a bowl of cereal. She crumpled up the note and began a new one.

 _Harry,_

 _I'd love to have lunch with you. Shall we meet at that Italian place on Bethnal at noon?_

 _Love,_

 _Hermione_

She secured the note to the owl before it flew off again, only to return some twenty minutes later with Harry's confirmation. She fed the bird a treat before it left and returned to her work, letting the next hour and a half fly by in the form of patients and paperwork. When it was nearing twelve o'clock, Hermione hung up her robes in her office, running her hands down her shirt and trousers to smooth them before leaving St. Mungo's and walking the several blocks it took to get from the hospital to the restaurant. Harry met her outside and they hugged briefly before they headed in, taking a table by the window. After they ordered, pork chop for Harry and minestrone soup for Hermione, Harry ran a hand through his messy hair and grimaced at Hermione.

"I've got to admit, this lunch isn't entirely just to catch up." He said, glancing between his glass of water and Hermione awkwardly. While her mood dropped significantly at the admitting, she nodded.

"I should've known just as much. You work with Ron, I imagine it's the first thing he told you this morning."

Harry shook his head. "He actually didn't want to tell me, it's just that he looked a mess so I knew something was off." He fiddled with his hands. "I'm not going to judge you for it, you know?" He asked, looking at Hermione for confirmation. "I mean, I wish it hadn't happened, and Merlin knows why of all the blokes you could've had, you'd choose Malfoy, but-"

"Wait." Hermione put her hand up to stop Harry, her brow furrowed. "What is it that Ron told you?"

"That he caught you and Malfoy together at your flat." Harry spoke slowly, trying to put together the pieces. "That he was half dressed and when Ron confronted you about it, you told him you needed space. Is that...is that not what happened?" Harry's green eyes darted about the place, more than a little confused.

"No." Hermione breathed, shaking her head. "No, that's not what happened. Malfoy came over for treatment and I completely forgot that I was supposed to meet Ron, and when he came to check up on me, he blew up about the situation." Hermione explained. "I told him it was entirely innocent but he accused me of picking Malfoy over him, and it was all so confusing and messy that I told him I needed to take a break." Hermione left out that she accused Ron of having not matured since he was a teenager, saving both herself the embarrassment of having to admit the childish insult, as well as saving Ron from telling his best mate what he'd said.

"Oh." Harry blinked, his nerves calming. "That makes more sense. No offence, Mione, but I could hardly imagine you turning to Malfoy for comfort." Harry laughed, though Hermione didn't, all too aware that while Harry meant comfort in a different sense, she really _had_ turned to Malfoy when she'd had no one else.

"He's a real wreck, Hermione." Harry continued, noting how serious her expression was. "I don't think he slept a single bit last night."

"Yes, well, his sleeping habits aren't my primary concern anymore." Hermione answered heatedly. "We've had that fight countless times, and I'm not certain I want to have it again, so unless something changes, we're not getting back together."

"You'll at least be civil, won't you?" Harry pleaded. "I don't want to run between the two of you like I had to when Ron was dating Lavender."

"Of course I'll be civil, Harry, we're all adults." Hermione relaxed her tone and set her hand on Harry's reassuringly. "I love Ron and I want this all to work out for the best, and if that means we get back together, I would be thrilled, but no matter what happens, I want him to be a part of my life. You know that I would never put you in the middle, right?"

"'Course not." Harry smiled and nodded. "Though I'll probably be quite disappointed if I have to start inviting Malfoy to our monthly dinners. Gin might get a kick out of it." He chuckled and Hermione quietly laughed along with him in what she hoped was a convincing manner.

"We hardly even speak outside of his treatment sessions, so there's nothing for you to worry about." Hermione neglected to explain that they did plenty of speaking just before and after those sessions, enough so that she was beginning to think she knew him better than he wanted her to. Even during the silence of their treatments, Hermione would catch herself watching Draco, noting that when he didn't think anyone was looking, he'd allow his eyebrows to knit together, a small frown tugging at his lips. And it didn't escape her notice that when he took off his shirt, he always kept his left sleeve on. Shame, for the decisions he'd made as a child, grief, for the loss of his parents, and determination, that which Hermione couldn't place, but he didn't seem to plan on giving that up to her any time soon.

Their meals arrived with little time left for further discussion of Ron, so the conversation turned toward James and Albus, as well as the unofficial Quidditch league the Ministry had. Harry was thrilled to discuss the sport, so Hermione nodded along, happy to entertain the topic if it meant making her friend happy. She also appreciated that the topic meant Harry was so occupied with explaining the specifications of the newest broom - the Hypersonic 800 - he planned to buy the moment it came out that he didn't notice Hermione's thoughts straying from the discussion and back to a certain blond.

When they finished eating, Hermione quickly snatched up the bill and paid for their meal, insisting Harry could pay for the next when they went somewhere more expensive. That made Harry laugh, and by the time they walked outside, it was clear that whatever worries Harry had had when he walked into the meal were now gone.

"You know I'm going to have to give Ron a good talking to now, right?" Harry asked as they walked together, heading in the same direction.

"Harry James Potter, don't you dare." Hermione gasped, gripping Harry's arm with surprising force. "I will not have you causing any trouble in this whole mess."

"He's got it all twisted around, Hermione!" Harry argued. "If you two were on the same page, I'd have no issues letting it work itself out, but how will you even get to a point where you can if he's under the impression you're shagging Malfoy?"

Hermione's words caught in her throat and she pointed sharply at Harry. "Harry, even if that _were_ the case, _never_ put it into words." She shook her head much like Molly Weasley did she was disappointed in one of her children. It made Harry grin.

"Fine, then. You'll just have to talk to him yourself since you've already got the Weasley matriarch lecture down. That can't go to waste in another family. Unless it goes to use in the Malfoy family because you're shagging the new head."

"Not another word, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, turning the corner as she stalked toward St. Mungo's Harry's laughter fading as he crossed the street to go back to the Ministry.

That evening, Hermione received a letter from Ginny, who had clearly spoken to Harry, apologising for her brother's stupidity and offering to knock some sense into him. When Hermione turned down the offer, Ginny showed up at her door, box of chocolate frogs in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.

"The chocolate frogs were all we had laying around." Ginny explained as she went to the cabinet to find a corkscrew. "You'd think I was married to a ten year old, the way Harry goes through those things." She muttered, uncorking the red wine.

"You don't have to do this, Ginny, I'm quite all right, I promise." Hermione confirmed, folding her arms across her chest. She was all right, at least when she didn't think about how her and Ron's fight had gone. Those were the moments she felt weak and scared again.

"Yeah, strangely all right, I'd say. Not that I didn't see it coming, course." Ginny continued. "You two have seemed distant for quite some time now. It's been a slow downhill progression for a while, hasn't it?" Ginny poured two glasses and took them over to the couch, sitting at one end while Hermione relented and took the other, accepting the glass filled far too much for just sipping. "So what really caused all this?"

Hermione explained it all to Ginny, going into more detail than she'd planned on sharing. She told her of their slowly decaying relationship, how she wanted so much more for them, how what Ron expected of her didn't align with what she wanted for herself, and how Draco's reappearance in her life had made Ron insecure, and how it scared her that he'd handled it no differently than he would have when he was a child.

"It's my fault." Hermione admitted. "I should've known what I was agreeing to when we began dating, and I think on some level, I've known since the beginning that things wouldn't work if they didn't change. I just didn't want to let go. I still don't want to let go." Hermione snorted and took a drink. She'd begun to wonder if her choosing to prolong the relationship as it was was an attempt to keep from disrupting any more constants in her life than she had to, and it was the longing for things to return to normal that made her think she was on the right track.

"And you might not." Ginny noted. "But I don't think you should get your hopes up that Ron will improve at all. That oaf has been the same wanker since he was five."

"Ginny, that's your brother." Hermione chided, though she had to admit Ron hadn't changed at all since she'd met him.

"And?" Ginny took a long drink of her wine. "That doesn't make it any less true." When she saw the unease on Hermione's face, she slowed her insults. "He might make some improvements now that he knows you're sincere." Ginny said thoughtfully. "This is the first time you've broken up, I would imagine that makes it a little more serious. He loves you and if he wants to get you back, he'd be daft not to understand that it'll take some effort."

Hermione hummed thoughtfully and shrugged, taking another drink. "One can only hope." Her response was quiet, and with nothing left to reassure her friend, Ginny tore open a chocolate frog, shoving it into Herimone's free hand. She smiled and took a bite of the overly sweet chocolate.

"Harry mentioned a Quidditch league at the Ministry." Hermione changed the subject knowing that if there was anything that would get Ginny to forget what she'd come there for, it would be Quidditch. It worked, just as she had hoped, and for the next hour, Hermione listened to Ginny's stories from her years she spent playing professionally, as well as the time the Auror department was down a player so she filled in. Hermione noted that Ginny was just as thrilled at Harry to discuss the sport, and when Ginny made a comment about having preordered Harry's birthday gift, a Hypersonic 800 broom, Hermione knew that there wasn't a match better made than Harry and Ginny. They were so in sync with each other, and it made Hermione grow jealous to know that they had found each other so perfectly and so young. It must've been nice, to know someone so well and to be happy to know each other so well. She couldn't imagine the feeling.

"You all right?" Ginny asked hesitantly, resting her hand on Hermione's knee. Ginny liked to think of Hermione as one of her closest friends, and the expression on her friend's face was one she wasn't familiar with, but she could assume that the somber look was indicative of something deeper.

"Yes." Hermione answered. "Just tired is all." _In far more ways than one_ , Hermione thought sourly.

"Well it _is_ getting late." Ginny conceded, looking at the clock on Hermione's mantle. "I suppose I should return home and free Harry from Albus' incessant requests for bedtime stories when he should already be asleep." Ginny forced herself off the couch and stretched her arms above her head. "You'll keep me up to date on how things are going with Ron, yes?" Ginny looked at Hermione expectantly and Hermione nodded agreeably, though she had no intention of keeping Ginny in the loop. No matter what Ginny said, Ron was her brother, and Hermione refused to even possibly drive a wedge between the two. It might not have been an issue for Ginny, but Ron would likely take great offence to her words if he knew of them. Hermione didn't want Ginny to risk her relationship with Ron too.

There was the familiar tapping of an owl at the window and Hermione had a funny feeling is was a certain pompous bird that belonged to a similar owner. Ginny looked to the dark window and Hermione placed her hands on Ginny's shoulders and guided her toward the Floo.

"Take the Floo home. You've had too much to drink to Apparate safely."

Ginny snorted comically. "Says the girl who Apparated to Ron's flat in the middle of the night far from sober just a month ago. Besides, I prefer Apparating." She adjusted her coat and glanced again at the owl, who was tapping again, quite impatiently. "You should get that. Could be work." Ginny said, though her expression indicated that she didn't particularly think that was a St. Mungo's owl.

"Right. I'll talk to you soon. Night, Gin."

"Night." Ginny waved before Apparating with a loud crack, leaving Hermione to rush to the window.

"So sorry, Spes." She apologised to the owl, who swooped in and perched on the back of a chair, letter tied to her ankle. Spes stuck her leg out angrily and Hermione hurried to untie it, though admittedly, some of her hurrying stemmed from curiosity. What did Draco want now? They still had a week before their next meeting.

 _Granger,_

 _I've passed your message along to Thrump, though he didn't seem to fully appreciate the gravity of receiving a thank you from_ _ **the**_ _Hermione Granger. Instead, he started muttering some rather gauche commentary about your heritage. It looks as though some of my father's teachings haven't left this world yet. You'll be very impressed to know that another house-elf that works (yes, you read correctly) for me, Mimmy, admonished him quite thoroughly. Mimmy likes to read the Daily Prophet, and whenever she sees your name, her ears wiggle back and forth like she's preparing to take off in flight. I suspect she remembers you from your first visit to the Manor._

Hermione paused, knowing that Draco was referring to a visit she desperately tried to forget, and tried to remember the presence of any house-elf during the time she'd been there. Of course, trying to remember such a detail was clouded by hours upon hours of torture, which seemed to be the only memory of the day she could bring to the forefront of her mind. Closing her eyes tightly for a moment, Hermione breathed in and out slowly before returning to the letter.

 _On a separate note, this morning, Spes returned to me and practically demanded that I feed her all the food on my plate. She squawked and hollered until I relented and let her have a bit of bacon, only to nip at my hand when she realised she wasn't getting any more. I must ask that in the future, you refrain from overindulging my owl, as I sense it will grow to be my burden when the damn bird retires. Besides, all Spes requires is a statement of approval for her work, not a treat._

 _Please return Spes tonight to me as clearly letting her spend the night at your disposal will earn me a spoilt owl._

 _Draco Malfoy_

Hermione looked over at Spes, who was preening her feathers, but when she felt a set of brown eyes settle on her, Spes eyed Hermione, blinking once.

"Thank you for delivering this post, Spes. You've done a good job." Hermione tried Draco's method of complimenting the owl, and Spes did seem to appreciate the words, craning her neck as she adjusted her body further onto the back of the chair. Hermione stood and walked to the kitchen, fishing around her cabinets for some owl treats, tossing several in a bowl. When Hermione turned back to the table, she saw that Spes had turned her head nearly backwards to see what the commotion was. Spes' eyes darted to the dish in Hermione's hands and adjusted her claws in anticipation. Hermione set the dish down on the table and sat down, writing her reply to Draco.

 _Malfoy,_

 _It titillates me to hear you employ at least one of your house-elves. Will you introduce me to her when I come to the Manor next Tuesday? Mimmy sounds to be a brilliant example of her species, though I think her interest in me is misplaced. While S.P.E.W was my first project of pride, I fear that I've abandoned those practices since beginning work at St. Mungo's. I hope Mimmy won't be too disappointed in me._

There was a rustling and Hermione glanced up at Spes, who had her face shoved into the bowl, snagging a beak full of treats before flying off the chair and into Hermione's bedroom, clearly looking for privacy to eat her snack. Hermione smirked and returned to writing.

 _As for Spes, you indicated that she doesn't like to travel at night, so despite your demand I return her, I'll be letting her make that call. As such, this letter might find you merely minutes after I've written it or in the morning. We'll let Spes decide._

 _Hermione Granger_

Hermione folded the note, addressed it to Draco, and called out to Spes, who flew back into the living room. Hermione explained the situation to the eagle owl, who listened attentively before sticking her foot out, ready for her return home. Hermione obliged the owl but insisted she take one more treat for the road, and Spes acted as though it was a burden, but Hermione was beginning to understand the act Spes put on, and nearly begged the bird to take one treat, Spes nearly rolling her eyes before swallowing up two more before flying out the open window.

With a smile on her face, Hermione walked into her bedroom and grinned at the small pile of crumbs in the doorway to her bathroom, picking up the remnants and tossing them into the bin before changing for bed. She climbed in under her comforter and closed her eyes, sleep finding her much quicker than it usually did.

* * *

 _"Mimmy saw Miss Hermione that day,"_ _the spindly house-elf wrung her hands, her ears pointed back and downward. "Miss Hermione is braver than anyone Mimmy knows."_


	10. Chapter 10

**Alright, so I'm a total loser, I know. Give me all the shit you feel is fair, I'll accept it with grace and dignity, though I might cry a little if you're not nice :(**

 **Anyway, I hope everyone has had a very well holiday season (which I'm fully blaming for this delay, though I know it's really been an accumulation of school and work that's postponed me this much) and that you don't hate me too much. I promise I'll try to update more regularly, and I swear I haven't abandoned the story. I've even been writing a few future chapters, but until we get there, I don't know how often I'll be able to update. Maybe the more I hear back from everyone, the more I'll feel motivated to write...is that considered extortion? I think it might be.**

 **To quickly address** **felesseta** **: I so appreciate your words! I'm glad to know that I'm staying within the realm of the original characters, since I like them for their personalities that exist, not new ones I create for them. As for reader response, as far as I can think of so far, everyone has been very positive or very constructive (sometimes a little of both), which I appreciate because yes, I've got a plan for everyone, but I think all the feedback makes me a better writer. I've noticed a change in my writing just since the first chapter, so please, tell me what you think!**

 **That message goes for everyone, so as always, please review!**

 **Love,  
**

 **Cherry**

* * *

Tuesday came after what felt like much too long (though the nights brewing the sana mortem potion kept Hermione aware of how many days had really passed), and it was with a newfound skip in her step, Hermione shed her terribly green workrobes and made her way to the Floo, glass jar of light blue potion in her arms. When she stepped through the green flames into the Malfoy Manor drawing room, Draco was waiting for her, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black trousers. Hermione smiled at him nicely, though his expression didn't shift from one of indifference as she did. She wasn't expecting it to, of course. Expecting any expression of emotion from Draco would be too much to ask so early into the evening. No, Draco, Hermione had learned, required coaxing and conversation to open up and express himself almost like a normal human, almost being the operative word.

Her brain reminded her that while her jesting was pragmatic for the most part, it could hardly capture all of Draco's hidden personality, something she learned just over a week ago when she'd broken down in his arms. She hadn't planned to take advantage of his checking on her, really. But he was there, and offering her kindness, and if Hermione was being honest with herself, she hadn't really been properly consoled about something in years so even if it _had_ been Draco Malfoy that was patting her back in a soothing motion, she had enjoyed it quite a bit. Naturally, the reminder that she had been held by the pair of arms now folded across Draco's chest made her redden, and so Hermione made a show of blowing a strand of hair out of her face and tightening her grip on the jar.

"You know, standing around will only delay me, not deter me. I won't yield this time." She spoke, and Draco raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip lifting to match.

"I would say many things about you, Granger, but yielding is not one of them. You're like a niffler that's caught the scent of gold. I sense nothing could deter you from something you really wanted." Draco turned and began walking out of the room, clearly expected Hermione to follow. She did, and as they walked, she spouted her retort.

"Not when it's concerning the well-being of my patients." Hermione made certain to verbally place Draco in the category of patient lest she consider crossing the line again. Even disregarding their sordid history, Hermione sensed that both of them had stepped over a line they'd previously had in place, and she refused to lose her professional status now, to Draco of all people.

They entered the office used previously for treatment, and Hermione noted that Thrump seemed to have done a thorough job of scrubbing down every surface, even the mantle, which was nowhere near the place of treatment.

"I take it Thrump didn't like the news of the location of your last session." Hermione noted dryly, taking off her coat and draping it over one of the chairs.

"He was hardly thrilled at the concept, but I assured him that as a healer, your home was practically cleaner than ours." Draco smirked as he unbuttoned his shirt, remembering the discussion he'd had with the house-elf, who had hyperventilated nearly to the point of passing out when he discovered Draco had received treatment without his cleansing of the space. It had taken upwards of an hour to calm the creature into a state of contentment, and that was really only after assuring Thrump that he could take care of the setting for the rest of the treatments. Hermione smiled to herself, noticing that Draco had said 'ours' when referring to his home, and the thought that he shared his home with what were once his slaves was far more pleasing than it should've been.

Draco climbed atop the desk and sat up, waiting for Hermione to approach as she redid the braid she'd tossed her hair into that morning, pulling all the loose strands back tightly. Her fingers moved with a lithe speed as she tied it all together with a band, and Draco had to wonder if Hermione kept her hair back because she didn't know how else to deal with its natural inclination to frizz everywhere. Though he had seen it down when he'd Flooed to her home last week and it hadn't seemed frizzy then. Poufy, yes, with the natural curls that hardly seemed like they could be controlled without heavy intervention, but why else would she put it back so often then? She'd never done that during their days at Hogwarts. No, when they were children, not even her interest in that Quidditch seeker during fourth year could get her to change her daily appearance, which meant there must've been a reason behind the shift in hairstyle.

When Hermione turned, she realised Draco was watching her, rather unabashed given that he had just been caught staring. Shying under his gaze - still as strong as it had been when she wasn't aware of his eyes - Hermione lifted the jar from the end table she'd set it on and brought it over to the desk, setting it by Draco's hip. She was relieved to see that when she looked up this time, Draco had found interest in the stack of books he'd prepared, no longer looking at Hermione as he sorted through the books. He settled on a particularly worn looking, leather bound book, its pages beginning to fray at the upper corners from constant page-flipping. There was no name on the spine, and as she sat, Hermione noted that there wasn't even a name on the cover. How did Draco even know how to find that book if it was so unidentified? Was it a family journal? A record book? His diary? She didn't ask, knowing Draco would only brush her off with some cryptic answer, and opened the jar, beginning her afternoon's work.

As she sat and kneaded and prodded, Hermione chewed on her lip, trying to determine if she could sort out exactly what Draco was so enthralled with without his discovering her motives. It wasn't likely, but whatever it was, every so often, Draco would summon his paper and quill with his wand, writing something down before guiding it back to the stack of papers and books on one of the shelves of his bookcase. It was almost as if he knew what she was doing; the way he flicked his wrist and banished the parchment out of her sight. In fact, Draco knew exactly what Hermione was doing, and while he wasn't opposed to her knowing what he was up to, she would just have to wait like the rest of the world. After all, she was only a healer in his eyes. A healer that definitely didn't have a rogue tendril of hair just above her left ear that was currently planning its escape from her plait.

"You've changed your hair." Draco finally commented under the guise of keeping Hermione's mind preoccupied with nonsense as opposed to his personal business. No part was willing to admit that the question was just as much to appease his curiosity as it was to distract her.

Hermione's hands quit working for a moment, and she nearly reached for her hairband, wondering if it'd come undone.

"Since school." Draco clarified, reading her actions correctly. "I can hardly remember a day where _that_ mane was actually under your control."

Hermione raised her eyebrows and looked at Draco with wide eyes. Had he noticed such a thing? Was it so evident and worth discussion? It had to be a dig of some kind, didn't it? It wouldn't be the first time Draco had chosen to target her hair as a point of insult. But they were past that, weren't they? They had crossed some line at some point so that they were no longer schoolmates from two diametrically opposed backgrounds, but two acquaintances on a possible path to common ground. At least it felt that way for Hermione, hadn't it?

"I suppose so." Hermione finally spoke, aware she hadn't actually answered Draco. She resisted the urge to reach for her locks and continued rubbing the potion into his pale skin. "It's hardly professional for a healer to run around with her hair everywhere though, isn't it?" It was true enough. When she was at work, Hermione was required to keep a tidy appearance, but she knew keeping her hair back had been a habit she'd developed as a result of Ron's input. Perhaps now that she was on her own, she should let her hair go free once more. She nearly snorted at the thought, aware that if she did indeed change her appearance now, it could be directly attributed to Draco, which was just as bad as letting Ron influence her looks.

"Mm." Draco hummed, closing his book and setting it next to his head. He placed his right hand under his head and shifted his legs so one was propped up into a more comfortable position. "I don't think it's that."

Hermione slowed her ministrations once more and scoffed aloud. "And what would you know about my habits, Mister 'I've used the same hair gel since I was eleven?'"

"I know you're the girl who was on the receiving end of bullying and torment for nearly six years, and never once did you make any effort to change who you were." Draco countered, lying back and staring at the ceiling to avoid Hermione's questioning look. "And as someone who took advantage of that element of your look, I can tell you how very aware I am that you never were concerned with what others thought of you, but something's changed, hasn't it? Something that has made you hyper aware of what your hair looks like and what you can do to limit its natural inclinations.

"You say work, which is a feasible answer, I'll grant you, given that you likely _do_ have to maintain a certain level of cleanliness, but I think it's likely more to do with something personal, something that impacts how you present yourself outside of just your place of employment. And no offence, Granger, but you hardly seem like the type to have a booming social life, so that leaves your close friends. Potter wouldn't have room to judge your grooming habits, I don't think he even owns a hairbrush, I hardly imagine that his little wife's opinion would matter enough to you to make such a change, so that leaves Weasley, who, last I knew, is just filled to the brim with opinions, and if you're the kind of girlfriend I imagine you to be, you likely saw your alteration in hairstyle to be something minimal that you could do to make your partner happy. And _if_ it is Weasley - which I'd bet one hundred galleons that it is - your continuation of such appearance either stems from the hope that you'll win back is affections, or you've developed a habit." Finally finished with his rant, Draco licked his lips and didn't bother looking at Hermione. He didn't have to to know that she was openly staring at him just as he had done to her earlier, though this time, it was justified.

He hadn't meant to go into so much detail. Yes, he had been thinking about it for the past hour, so logically, he'd ruled out possible causes and focused in on what he likely believed the cause to be: a certain ginger with far too much to say. It was surprising, to say the least. Draco would've never thought any man, let alone one from the Weasley clan, would be able to affect Hermione in a way that actually made her change something she had always been so undeniably principled on. Admittedly, it bothered him. Hermione was a beacon of stubbornness and determination, two elements that made her so uniquely her, so the fact that she had let someone impact her so greatly was an insult to the Hermione of yesteryear.

"I was concerned with what others thought." Hermione finally put together her words, hardly prepared to formulate a coherent response after that monologue. Had it really meant so much to Draco? How had he even noticed? It made her uneasy, to know that not only was he so concerned with the minutia of her life, but that he was so spot on with his assessment. Hermione knew that she'd fallen into a rut of sorts following the demise of Voldemort, but to think that she had become so predictable was disheartening.

"I was never willing to compromise my own values because of someone else's words, but of course I cared how people perceived me." She continued, refusing to make eye contact with Draco while she spoke, which was all right with him as he was doing the same thing. "You might not have known it, but when I first met them, I hardly got along with Harry and Ron. I was nervous that I wouldn't fit in with all of you, having been raised to believe witches and wizards only existed in fairy tales, so I studied everything that I could get my hands on, absorbing every bit of magical information I came across in hopes that maybe I wouldn't be so inferior to my peers once I began school. Ron didn't understand it, having grown up in this world, and Harry was happy just to be away from his aunt and uncle, so when I came along with my overeagerness and need to prove myself, they didn't like me very much and I heard them making fun of me. I spent the majority of that afternoon locked in the lavatory, crying my eyes out.

"So yes. I was concerned with what others thought." Hermione scrunched her nose at the memory, and went back to rubbing in the potion, splashing another scoop across Draco's ribs. They were both silent, for which Hermione was grateful, and Draco went back to his books, willing to let the subject drop if it didn't mean further addressing his embarrassing outburst.

Hours later, when Hermione had only a quarter of the jar remaining, there was a quiet knock on the door, to which Draco answered with a tired yet commanding "enter." The door opened to reveal a small house-elf dressed in a navy blue blazer that reached its knees, its hands covered by the too long sleeves, though it held the tray in her grip with strong fingers. Its ears twitched nearly imperceptibly when its round, blue eyes shot to Hermione.

"Ah, Mimmy." Draco greeted the house-elf and sat up, gesturing for the house-elf to approach. Mimmy shuffled over to Draco, wearing a pair of too large loafers, and held the tray out to him.

"Master Draco's tea, sir." Mimmy waited as Draco poured himself a cup, her knees wobbling as she held the tray above her head so he could reach it without climbing down from the desk.

"Want one, Granger?" Draco asked, gesturing to Hermione, who secretly wanted a break from rubbing, though she knew part of the healing process required a steady effort, something she'd looked into after last week's treatment.

"No, I'm working, in case you haven't noticed." She held up and wiggled her pruning fingers and Draco rolled his eyes.

"Your loss. Set the tray down and introduce yourself then, Mimmy." Draco waved a hand at Mimmy who obediently set the tray down on the end table between the two chairs, her ears fluttering as she looked at Hermione, wiggling her sleeve covered hands.

"Mimmy is so pleased to meet Miss Hermione." She bent at the knee and bowed her head. "Mimmy knows all about Miss Hermione, and her support of the house-elves, and her bravery against the Dark Lord." Mimmy stood up straight again and looked at Hermione with wide eyes.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mimmy." Hermione stilled her hands against Draco's side for a moment, not wanting to lose count of which stroke came next. "And I think you might give me too much credit. My efforts with S.P.E.W. weren't appreciated by the house-elves they affected."

"No, no, Miss Hermione." Mimmy admonished. "Mimmy knows all about Miss Hermione from Dobby. Dobby told Mimmy how supportive and kind Miss Hermione was to those who deserved it."

"You knew Dobby?" Hermione asked, her heart softening a little at the mention of the house-elf who made her second year a living nightmare, and saved her from certain death.

"Oh yes! Dobby and Mimmy shared a room! Even after Dobby's freeing, Dobby came back to tell Mimmy about Harry Potter and Mister Weasley and Miss Hermione." Mimmy's expression brightened at the thought of Dobby, though it darkened all too quickly. "Mimmy saw Miss Hermione that day," the spindly house-elf wrung her hands, her ears pointed back and downward. "Miss Hermione is braver than anyone Mimmy knows."

At the mention of the second worst day of her life, Hermione's stomach dropped and a lump rose in her throat. She didn't ever think of that time,quite intentionally because thinking about it just brought back the pain she suffered from it, both physical and mental. The Cruciatus Curse had been pure torture, lighting Hermione's body on fire before crushing every bone, only for Bellatrix to pause and give Hermione a moment to breathe before returning to torturing her. When that didn't prove to force information out of Hermione, Bellatrix resorted to more primal forms of torture in the form of threats and actual bodily harm. She peppered in more curses along the way, but after the first hour, it all became a hazy blur.

Forcing down the memories and nausea she felt now, Hermione smiled tightly at Mimmy and nodded quickly.

"I think Dobby deserves that title, but thank you." Merlin, she didn't even recognise her own voice. This was going downhill quickly and Hermione felt helpless to stop it.

"Thank you for the tea, Mimmy." Draco spoke with a hardness Hermione hadn't heard before, and when she looked over at him, she was surprised to see more than just indifference in his eyes. He looked angry, and Hermione could only hope it wasn't directed at Mimmy.

"M-my pleasure, Master Draco." Mimmy stuttered, aware that something had shifted and her presence was no longer welcome. She curtsied clumsily before clumsily scooting out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

Hermione tried to even her breathing and closed her eyes, taking a moment to return to a normal state. When she felt calm again, Hermione opened her eyes and looked to Draco, about to apologise for her reaction when he beat her to it.

"I hadn't thought to warn Mimmy about her oversharing." Draco explained, his brows knit together. "I hope you know I didn't intend to insult you by dredging up such a horrid moment."

"I think I must need my hearing checked, did you just _apolgise_ , Malfoy? Now I've seen everything." Gobsmacked at Draco's admission, Hermione tried to lighten the mood in hopes that things could return to the way they had been prior to Mimmy's appearance. Well, at least before Mimmy's recounting of such a bad memory.

"You would do well to accept it, before I change my mind and take it back." Draco countered, more than pleased to let the tension dissolve. He set his teacup down and laid back, acutely aware that Hermione's little hands lay against his side still, waiting to pick up where they'd left off.

"Then I accept." Hermione said, beginning to rub in the potion again. "And while the thirteen year old Malfoy might've thought that was a clever plan to trick me into crying, I know your current self wouldn't jeopardize treatment for the sake of a mean spirited prank."

"That's true." Draco conceded, both of them knowing that the current Draco wouldn't dare hurt Hermione's feelings on purpose. No, Hermione was beginning to think that more than anyone she knew, Draco had grown the most since they were children. She recognised the sarcasm and superiority complex that were still present in his personal expression, but he was quieter, and more thoughtful, and dare she say it, pleasant to be around. It wasn't always so picture perfect, of course. He was still probing and judgmental, as evidenced by their conversation earlier in the afternoon, but underneath that, he wasn't too terrible. _That_ was a strange thought. Draco Malfoy: not too terrible. If only Harry and Ron could hear her now; actually starting to like the newest version of Draco. He would make quite the partner for someone someday.

In what felt like a bizarre twist of fate, Hermione realised the changes she'd hoped to see in Ron throughout their relationship were changes that Draco had instead been the one to make. He wasn't nearly as rash or hotheaded as he'd once been, nor was he as reckless, and in its place, he was tactful and deliberate. And not only had she identified these qualities in him, but now she was viewing him as a proper gentleman. Merlin, she needed to work things out with Ron.

As Hermione continued to work through the remaining potion, she forced her thoughts of Draco out of her mind, refusing to even entertain positive thoughts of the man if it meant she was making the leap from neutral acquaintance to good boyfriend material.

* * *

 _"Mimmy, does being your employer earn me no respect? For the love of Merlin, I gave you your freedom and I still get spoken to like that?"_

 _Hermione smirked as Mimmy stamped her feet, ears twitching enthusiastically. She rather enjoyed having another defend her, even if it was clearly just as a pawn in Mimmy's power trip._

 _"Mimmy gives Master Draco much respect, but he must not treat Miss Hermione like a criminal." Hermione nearly stuck her tongue out at Draco but Mimmy continued. "That being said, Miss Hermione must stay for dinner if she does not have a pet to care for." Mimmy turned to Hermione with eyes round as saucers in an obvious attempt to guilt Hermione into staying. Hermione hated that it was working._


	11. Chapter 11

**I'm back, so I hope you're all still with me.** **I had fun writing this one, so I hope you all enjoy it too. Maybe it'll inspire you all to let me know if you like where it's going?**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

After the last of the potion had been rubbed in, Hermione cleaned her hands off and began pack up her belongings, refusing to look at Draco as he slid off the desk and dressed himself. Things had gotten a little too personal that afternoon, she didn't need to go making it all the much more so by watching him button up his white shirt with lithe fingers. Nor did she need to think of his fingers as lithe.

"So I'll begin the next potion tomorrow. You'll be available next Thursday?" Hermione asked, unrolling her sleeves and pulling the edges over her pruning hands. While her fingers itched to redo the braid her hair was tied back in, she refused to touch the frizzing strands, knowing that a certain somebody would most definitely have an opinion on the action.

"I will." Draco agreed, adjusting his arms so his shirt didn't cling to his still drying skin. He shrugged on his blazer, grimacing as his coat trapped his cotton shirt to his side. What he wouldn't give for a good Scourgify in that moment. He'd have to wait until he was in private, seeing as the Healer still in his presence would hardly approve of such an action when the goal of the potion was for it to dissolve naturally into the skin. But he was a Malfoy, damn it, and while the name had lost much of its weight, no proper Malfoy would be caught sticking to his own clothes.

"Hard to imagine it'll be the last one, no?" Hermione asked conversationally as Draco led her out of the office, the two walking toward the drawing room. She noted - both with curiosity and enjoyment - that no longer was she leered at as she walked through the halls of Malfoy manor, for the paintings of Draco's ancestors were covered with curtains that seemed nearly magically sealed, judging by the way not a single noise emanated from the purist paintings. Hermione wondered if it was her presence that had made Draco shun the paintings, or had it been of his own volition? It was too vain to believe he'd done it for her - sparing her judgment and the occasional cruel comment - given that she would only be around those painting for a matter of minutes once a week over the course of a month, but a great part of her hoped that even if it wasn't for her directly, perhaps it was a show of good faith for the Muggle-borns; some indication that Draco was rejecting his old ways and moving toward a more united future.

She'd have to get the charm to pass along to Harry since it didn't seem like that painting of Walburga Black was planning to quiet down anytime soon.

As Hermione stepped down from the last marble stair, a squeaky voice chirped from somewhere down the main hall.

"Miss Hermione is leaving?" It asked, and Hermione turned to see Mimmy, wringing her hands like she always seemed to do.

"Oh, yes." Hermione cleared her throat, hoping to stave off whatever lingering anxiety she had as a result of her discussion with the house-elf. "Someone has to feed Crookshanks, after all." She lied easily, knowing that Crookshanks was very well fed at his home at the Burrow. She'd left him there at the start of the war - knowing he would be safe chasing garden gnomes all day - and after the war, well, after the war she didn't feel very much like she could care for anyone but herself, if she could even do that. He was better off with a loving family that could give him the encouragement and entertainment he needed.

"That mangy old cat of yours?" Draco asked, his brows raising dramatically. "That thing is still alive?"

"Yes, _he_ is still alive, and he's quite well, thank you for your concern." Hermione retorted. "Though I don't know why you're so worried with his well being."

"Worried? No. I figured it was dead when it didn't pop out of any cupboard or closet at your flat last week. Come to think of it, I didn't see any orange hairs strewn about the place. Rather tidy for a home with such a furry companion." Draco (somewhat) silently judged Hermione's reason for leaving, knowing that she likely wanted to get home as soon as possible, a fact he was all right with given how much he seemed to overshare when he she was present. While he rather enjoyed the normalcy of their interactions, which were barely tainted with his woes and tribulations like all of his other conversations, he much preferred keeping his guard up and steadfast, something that he was become less resolute about every time their paths crossed. Still, he couldn't help but tease her. It was nearly second nature, and the way her mouth popped open at the possibility of being caught in a lie was far too amusing to ever quit.

"Master must not question Miss Hermione." Mimmy chided, pointing a knobby finger at Draco. He raised his eyebrows at the house-elf in surprise.

"Mimmy, does being your employer earn me no respect? For the love of Merlin, I gave you your freedom and I _still_ get spoken to like that?"

Hermione smirked as Mimmy stamped her feet, ears twitching enthusiastically. She rather enjoyed having another defend her, even if it was clearly just as a pawn in Mimmy's power trip.

"Mimmy gives Master Draco much respect, but he must not treat Miss Hermione like a criminal." Hermione nearly stuck her tongue out at Draco but Mimmy continued. "That being said, Miss Hermione _must_ stay for dinner if she does not have a pet to care for." Mimmy turned to Hermione with eyes round as saucers in an obvious attempt to guilt Hermione into staying. Hermione hated that it was working.

"Oh all right." She huffed, folding her arms across her chest. "I suppose Crookshanks can wait another hour to eat." She continued to try to pass the lie as truth and though she missed Draco's smirk, it was Mimmy's smile that had her both convinced she'd made the right decision and worried her as to what this dinner was going to entail.

As it happened, dinner at Malfoy Manor was as formal as its decor and occupants. The dining hall was decorated in black and white (though mostly black) and its vaulted ceilings were nearly dwarfed by the chandelier that hung over the fourteen person table. At the head of the far end, a set of fine china and a goblet sat, an exquisite meal much like the one sent to Hermione by Draco just a week ago. A second set of dishes appeared at the place just next to the head of the table, and as they neared, the scent of it all reached Hermione's nose, and in a moment of sheer embarrassment, her stomach growled quite loudly. When Draco gave her a judgmental (albeit harmless) sideways glance, Hermione shrugged.

"I'm a healer, Malfoy, not a millionaire." She noted sourly as she eyed the lamb and asparagus hungrily. After all, she had only eaten breakfast, and what a poor excuse for a breakfast it had been: a cup of tea and two slices of toast.

"What, the bounty on the Dark Lord's head didn't grant you such wealth?" Draco asked as he pulled out the chair where the plate of food had just appeared, waiting for Hermione to sit. While she hadn't expected the motion, the gesture was that of a properly raised gentleman, not a man seeking a woman's favor, so Hermione sat, trying her best to recall the etiquette lessons she'd very briefly received during her childhood. Did she place her napkin in her lap now, or when she began eating?

"My cut for Voldemort's demise was much less than Harry's." Hermione made a point to use the once villain's name. She nearly called him Tom, just to prove a point that had once been instilled in her from a great man. "After all, the Ministry was ready to hand everything over to him until he clarified that he was far from the solely responsible party for bringing about the death of one of the most feared wizards of all time. Besides, I donated the majority of my earnings to several different post-war reparation funds. Hardly seemed fair to pocket money for doing something that needed to be done."

Draco chuckled as he sat at the head of the table, a funny look flitting over his face as he did. He didn't explain. "Always a Gryffindor, no? Never accepting a bit of respect when you've done something worthy of it."

"Then I suppose you're always a Slytherin." Hermione returned as Draco floated a decanter over to the table to pour them each a goblet of red wine. "Assuming something that earns respect warrants a cash reward."

"Well, call me cynical, but there are only two things to which people actually display respect to: money and fear. Since the Golden Trio has never really resorted to fear, I assume that any respect you lot have been given is in the form of mounds and mounds of Galleons." In the following moment of silence, Draco picked up his fork and knife and began to cut into his meal, Hermione happily following suit. The first bite was near perfection, Hermione decided, the lamb tender and impeccably seasoned, and the sauce (or glaze, or reduction, or whatever it was) was absolutely sublime. Was this the benefit of having house-elves, Hermione wondered. Were they kept around solely because of their ability to cook five star meals at the drop of a hat?

"I take it the food is all right?" Draco asked, a chuckle bubbling in his chest as Hermione's eyes flew open and darted to his, dropping her fork back to her plate, which had been sandwiched between her lips less than eloquently just a moment ago. She finished chewing and swallowing and nodded, setting her silverware down to take a drink.

"It's quite lovely." She responded. "Truthfully, I've had few a better meal, and I spent many summers in France as a child." A pink tinge rose to Hermione's cheeks, knowing that she was very likely embarrassing herself, but in exchange for a near Michelin star restaurant food? Why, she might dance around in a circle and sing a song if it meant more meals like this.

"You travelled to France?" Draco asked, his curiosity peaked. He spent more holidays than not in France as well growing up. "Whereabouts?"

"Oh the usual places." Hermione dabbed her napkin to her mouth, eyeing the asparagus lightly. That would have to be her next bite. "Paris, Cannes, Lyon, Strasbourg," she prattled off, tucking her hair behind her ear. "My parents enjoyed culture, none more than that of the French. We would rent a car and take day trips to other cities - Saint-Tropez, Versailles - anywhere with some sort of adventure or history to be found."

As Hermione continued to gush about her holidays with her family, Draco selfishly began to wonder if he would reach a point in life where he could fondly reflect on the time he had with his now deceased parents. His memories weren't nearly as idealistic as Hermione's; no, trips to France were for business or fashion, not enjoyment, but perhaps those moments he stole with his mother (the trips to museums, or quick stops into a pâtisserie for an éclair and an espresso on the way back to the summer home) would be the highlights of his time in France. Maybe someday, he could reflect on them positively, rather than feel his mood sour at the realisation that he would never have those moments again.

"My favourite was Giverny." Hermione continued, unaware of Draco's lingering focus. "It's where Monet is from, he's my favourite painter. There's an entire museum devoted to him." At Draco's distance stare, Hermione thought it to mean something different than it did. "Though I suppose you don't know Monet, do you? He was a Muggle painter, very famous for his-"

"Impressionistic paintings, yes." Draco finished for her, returning to the conversation. "Yes, I know Monet. Anyone with an ounce of culture knows Monet."

"Oh." Hermione answered stupidly, surprised at Draco's knowledge of such a great, Muggle artist. "Not that you shouldn't know Monet, I suppose, but I would've assumed, given your background, that, er, you...wouldn't have cared to know such an artist." The statement was less than eloquent, but it was better than the alternative: "It's shocking you know Monet given your history of hating Muggles and anything they produce, including wizards and witches."

"Yes, well, the Malfoys might be part of an elite class of wizards, but we also see the value in things. You'd be surprised at the investments we made into Muggle means. Earned us quite a galleon, electricity did."

" _Electricity?_ " Hermione's mouth dropped open. "Your family invested in _electricity?_ "  
Quite enjoying knowing more than the brilliant Granger for once, Draco continued. "Of course. Along with the steam engine, the printing press, the wheel, fire. We Malfoys were around for it all."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, realising that on some level, Draco was toying with her. Had any of it been true?

"Clever." Hermione retorted and took another bite, letting the flavors drown out her annoyance. _Merlin_ , was it delicious. She might just have to befriend a few house-elves if this was the product of their free labour.

The meal continued, and the two easily slid through conversation from one topic to the next; they spoke of Hermione's work and Draco's business (which was indeed as the head of Malfoy investments, making Hermione wonder if she should attribute the success of any modern technologies to his family), briefly about their shared time at Hogwarts (though most of the discussion was about how terribly unfit some of their professors were at their jobs), and for quite a lengthy amount of time, the two bantered quite playfully about the success of the most recent Quidditch World Cup, held almost a year prior. While Hermione didn't enjoy the sport all that much, she found great entertainment in watching Draco - calm, stoic, controlled, Draco - nearly losing his mind trying to justify Egypt's win, which Hermione only now found herself opposed to, rather liking the way she made Draco squirm. In all actuality, she'd been somewhat pleased to know that Bulgaria's loss had come because their alluring Veela mascots couldn't distract the opposing team's female seeker from her goal of capturing the snitch.

"All I'm saying is Zaghloul relied on her broom, not talent to win the game." Hermione took a sip of wine, smirking into her cup.

"Her _broom_? Granger, that's like saying a beater relies on his bat; of course she relied on her broom! Besides, the entire Egyptian team was riding Firedarts, not just Zaghloul." Looking like he was just a moment away from pulling out his hair, Draco reassessed his tactics. "You're just wound up that your boyfriend didn't win."

Hermione's eyes narrowed as she lowered the goblet from her mouth, setting it down next to her empty plate. "Viktor was never my boyfriend."

Sensing that he'd found the proper insult, Draco continued. "Oh? Could've fooled me. You two grew awfully close our fourth year, did you not?" Draco got a knowing look in his eye. " _Very_ close, some might say. Close enough that perhaps you might oppose the team who drove that same boyfriend to retirement."

"I don't like your insinuation, Malfoy." Hermione reddened, either from the wine or embarrassment, she couldn't tell. "Can't a girl have a friendship without having it questioned constantly?" Admittedly, Draco's accusations were reminding Hermione of the thinly veiled accusations Ron had made when they attended the 2002 World Cup at Viktor's expense. He'd insisted that Hermione bring her friends to watch the tournament from his box, and while Ron had had a great time during the match, it was only after Hermione's empathy for Viktor's second loss that Ron had suggested maybe Viktor and Hermione's relationship wasn't as innocent as it seemed. He'd slept outside the tent that night.

"A girl can most definitely have a friendship without it being questioned, but we all saw the way Viktor looked at you at the Yule Ball in your pretty little robes. Nary a man could keep his eyes off you that night, and while your eyes were set solely on your Bulgarian Seeker, perhaps you were too blinded by 'friendship' to comprehend the want in his eyes." Draco took his hand off his glass, knowing that just as he had earlier during his treatment, he was babbling on far too much, and it seemed as though the wine was steering him into a territory he never thought he would be discussing with Hermione. Suggesting that he - like every other male student in attendance at the Yule Ball - had given swotty, Muggle-Born Hermione Granger a second glance because she looked beautiful...that must've meant he'd had one too many drinks.

"Well," Hermione tried to ignore the implication of what Draco said, assuming it was the wine leading her to interpret what he'd said to mean he'd fancied her, even just for one night, and brushed over the subject. "Last Viktor and I spoke, there seemed to be a new woman in his life, so these little 'boyfriend' remarks both you and Rita Skeeter are so keen to make will have to end soon."

"Hm," Draco mused, trying to let the tension fade from the room. It did, somewhat, but there was a lingering feeling that both Hermione and Draco couldn't quite place, and in all honesty, neither wanted to grant the feeling enough validity to give it any consideration.

"Well, thank you for dinner." Hermione thanked Draco, noticing that it was nearing nine and dinner had spanned just over two hours. "I should be getting home now, Crookshanks and all." She took her napkin from her lap and the moment she sit it on the table, Mimmy popped up across the table, eyes wide and pleading.

"Miss Hermione is leaving so soon?" Mimmy asked and Hermione's mouth opened and closed several times before she nodded.

"Yes, it's getting quite late, anyway." Hermione confirmed and Mimmy snapped, vanishing all of the empty plates.

"She'll be back next Thursday, yes?" Mimmy continued. "If Miss Hermione liked the dinner, Mimmy and Thrump can prepare another dish specially for Miss Hermione. Does she like chicken? Steak? Pork?"

"Enough, Mimmy." Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Hermione thought that in that moment, he looked more like his father than he ever had before. "Out of obligation due to your incessant begging, Granger stayed for dinner, I sincerely doubt it shall ever happen again."

"Something French." Hermione spoke, much to her chagrin. She hadn't meant to arrange another night of dinner at Malfoy Manor, but it meant opposing Draco (and receiving another divine meal), so before she was even aware of her doing, she'd made the plan. Mimmy looked thrilled.

"Very well then, Miss Hermione! Good evening." Mimmy bowed dramatically and disappeared with a pop, leaving Draco and Hermione alone together again.

Coming to her right mind, Hermione blinked and stood up, Draco following suit, albeit much more gracefully. "I apologise for that." Hermione began. "I didn't mean to invite myself to dinner at your home. Please, feel free to disinvite me, if you see fit; I spoke without thinking."

"Granger, I've spent more of my free time with you in the last month than I've spent with any other person, most of it not wholly unpleasant. One more dinner won't do me in." He gestured to the doorway and the two walked back to the drawing room, Hermione taking a handful of Floo powder from the bowl next to the fireplace.

"Well, goodnight, Malfoy. I'll see you next Thursday." Hermione tossed the powder into the Floo and turned to Draco, the two smiling politely at each other, some unspoken thing passing between the two again.

"Goodnight, Granger."

* * *

 ** _"Strawberry's Cure has an invisibility property to it." Luna explained like it was common knowledge. "Theoretically, you could rub it on your skin for a temporary return to your arm's original state."_**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hiiiiiii. So I've spent way too much time trying to sit down and write this one when I should've been doing schoolwork, so I hope you're all happy. While that sounds terribly sarcastic, I genuinely mean it. I feel like I'm finally (mentally) back on track with the story, so I hope it shows and that you all enjoy it.**

 **As always, I love hearing from everyone, so please review and tell me what you think! Your input does help mold future chapters, so I appreciate all advice, compliments, suggestions, maybe not insults, but hey, I'm not entirely opposed to the idea ;)**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

Draco Malfoy was raised on the belief that if you had enough money and power, people would do anything requested of them.

He was also beginning to believe that that sentiment was utter tosh. Yes, he might've had more wealth than any one person required, and he was the head of his own company (not that all of his employees treated him as such), but for the life of him, Draco couldn't seem to get the results he required out of the private investigator he'd hired just two weeks prior. Rolph Caulfield, ex-Auror and bender of rules, had been hired by Draco just after the first round of his mortuus textus treatment, roughly three weeks after the murders took place. Given that the Aurors on the case (initially just Harry and Ron, though others had been brought on with time) had been producing absolutely no results, and the lead Quizenberry, the Floo analyst, had found went cold, well, Draco had had enough. He tried researching the case himself, but in all honesty, his education had tapered off to practically nothing in his sixth year - what with a certain Dark Lord taking up residency in his home and requiring Draco to do his bidding at Hogwarts - so while it pained him to admit it, he needed a professional. And that's where Rolph Caulfield came in. He was talented, according to his references, and not afraid to do what he needed to do in order to get a job done.

Which is why Draco couldn't understand how the man hadn't made any progress in the case he had been hired to do.

"Look, Mr. Malfoy, this isn't a traditional case. I've never dealt with an unregistered Floo before." Rolph justified, watching his employer toy with the crystal tumbler on his desk, filled with just the slightest bit of firewhisky. He wondered how much the younger man had drank already.

"That's a terribly inconclusive answer, and not the one I hired you to give." Draco responded, his eyes focused on the cube of ice as it began to melt in his glass. He tried wandlessly casting a Freezing Charm on the ice but it only wiggled, hardly affected by his attempt. _Like nonverbal spells, my arse,_ Draco thought, his mind wandering to Hermione's offer to teach him wandless magic. He couldn't imagine the latter years of her education had fared much better than his, but brilliant witches and wizards like her didn't need formal education to learn something new.

"It's not for lack of trying." Rolph continued, unaware of what exactly Draco was thinking at that moment, but it didn't take a psychic to know the man was unimpressed by his work. "Believe me, I've contacted countless wizards about their knowledge of unregistered Floos, I procured a list from the Ministry of those who had their own and questioned them about who set the spells for theirs, and there was no evidence to point to who created your father's. Half the people were either dead or in Azkaban, and the other half was abroad, afraid to return to Britain for fear of imprisonment. They weren't good men who designed these Floos."

"And?" Draco pressed, Rolph's voice grating on his nerves. All he did was whine, it seemed. "I don't care about whatever leads you've chased down that have led you nowhere, I don't care about your pathetic little attempts at trying to justify your deficiencies, what I _want_ ," Draco set his tumbler down with perhaps a little too much force, "is for you to present me with some reason to not fire you." Draco looked up at Rolph, who was beginning to sweat with desire as he glanced between the firewhisky and Draco. Draco, of course, had realised Rolph was an alcoholic pretty quickly into their meetings, and it was clear that his addiction was dependent on receiving some form of income, and at the moment, that income came from Draco.

"There's a possible wizard. A man named Dermot Petcher, he designs a variety of untraceable charms - many for people your parents knew - and he still lives somewhere in Britain. I can't pin him down, he doesn't stay in one place for too long, the tricky little bugger, but he might be of some help to us. With any luck, he designed your father's Floo."

Draco mulled over the name, vaguely familiar with someone named Petcher, but he couldn't recall the first name. Was it because he'd been in Draco's home at some time? Or was he only clinging to the name in a desperate attempt to feel like he had an answer?

"I suppose that's something." Draco conceded, and Rolph puffed his chest up with a bit of pride. Not too many hired the older man anymore, and this was the first compliment he had received from Draco.

"Thank you, sir." Rolph nodded, folding his hands behind his back.

"You're fired."

Gobsmacked, Rolph blinked rapidly several times before speaking. "I'm...fired? But you asked for something positive and I gave you the bloody name of a possible lead!"

"A possible lead that you can't even get ahold of, you said it yourself. So what use are you to me if you can't do the job you've been paid to do?" Draco sat up straight before standing, surpassing Rolph's aging height just enough to give him an edge over the angry investigator. While there was a desk separating the two, whatever wind had filled Rolph's sails drained as the young head of the Malfoy line stared at him with sharp, grey eyes. While he wasn't fully aware of the transformations he'd made since becoming head of the house, Draco was intimidating, even to someone who had fought dark wizards for the majority of his adult life.

"Now, do you plan on walking out of here on your own, or should I call Thrump to assist you to the gates?" Draco adjusted his robes, raising a single eyebrow at Rolph, who hesitated, clearly weighing whether or not he should say what it was he was thinking, but in the end, it was either fear or respect of Draco that kept Rolph from voicing his opinion as he let himself out of the room.

With a tired sigh, Draco sat back down, running a hand through his fine hair. If Rolph was supposed to have been able to answer his questions about his parent's murders that the Aurors couldn't, where did he go now? To some other accomplished private investigator? How many people would have to know about Draco's latest obsession?

 _"I've heard talking about it helps."_ For the second time that day, Hermione's voice popped into Draco's head. He nearly swatted at some invisible being above his head in hopes of pushing the bushy haired know-it-all from his mind, but instead, Draco called for Thrump, who came to his master's aid with a potion to cure headaches and a fresh glass of firewhisky.

* * *

"The Muggles are gifted artists, aren't they, Hermione?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, quite."

"All right, Hermione?" Ginny asked, looking at her friend closely. The three (the third being Luna Lovegood) had gone to a show at Hermione's suggestion since the two pure-blood girls never really ventured into the Muggle world without some sort of guide. When a world famous travelling production of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ came to London, Hermione jumped at the chance for tickets, knowing Luna would love the story and Ginny would be entertained by the "practically medieval" technology used by Muggles in the theatre.

"Oh yes, quite well, thanks." Hermione smiled in a convincing attempt at carefree, only Ginny picking up that something might've been amiss. She let the subject drop, however, knowing that whatever her friend was concerned with, she would share it when she was ready.

"That character in the tights was quite spectacular." Luna continued on, barely aware of her friends' interaction. "The one who used Amortentia on all those people. Do you think it's based on fact?"

"I highly doubt it." Hermione snickered at the thought that Shakespeare had been a wizard. "Wouldn't we want to claim one of the most famous playwrights in history if he was truly a wizard?"

"He could've been a squib." Ginny justified, having spoken with Harry about Shakespeare before attending the play. While Harry had been full of "I don't know"s and "Well, we learnt about him only once or twice in primary school," Ginny had gleaned that he was quite poetic and well versed for a man of such simple times. "Didn't he write of places there's no record of him ever visiting? What if he was travelling with wizards?"

"I...don't know." Hermione replied lamely, realising that maybe her friends were onto something. It could be an explanation for some of the fantastical descriptions Shakespeare had written during his time.

The trio discussed the issue as they walked to dinner - Hermione producing facts negating the idea that Shakespeare had been from some form of magical heritage while Luna or Ginny provided an opposing logic - and when they arrived at a new, trendy restaurant that had recently opened in Wizarding London, they were immediately seated at a table next to the windows.

"The perks of being famous, eh?" Ginny nodded her head at the line of waiting people they had passed due to the maî·tre d' recognising Ginny as the Chosen One's wife. It was with a belated sense of excitement that he put together that Hermione was there, and within moments of having sat, a bottle of what seemed to be a very nice, very expensive bottle of wine appeared at their table.

"And the detriments." Hermione nodded her head toward the tall window to her left, which framed a number of witches and wizards holding cameras while some floated unsupported in an attempt to capture a photograph of the three friends. Hermione could already see the headlines and - valuing her privacy - she wasn't thrilled at the maî·tre d's transparent attempt to promote his restaurant. Like Ginny and Luna, Hermione shed her coat and hung it over the back of her chair, adjusting the sleeves of her blouse as she sat.

Ginny cleared her throat to gather Hermione's attention and when the two made eye contact, Ginny nodded down at the table, where Hermione was holding her menu. It was with a moment of embarrassment that Hermione saw the edge of her scar poking out from the hem of her sleeve, just the ragged "d" of "mudblood" visible for all to witness. With a grateful smile, Hermione pulled her sleeve down, adjusting the other to match.

"Have you tried Strawberry's Cure?" Luna asked dreamily, causing both girls to look at her. She gazed at Hermione, fully aware of the scar that blemished her skin. She had, after all, been at Malfoy Manor that day; she'd been there quite a bit longer actually, not that anyone could get an exact date out of the seemingly absent-minded woman.

"What is that?" Ginny asked, often trying to put together what her friend was saying. She didn't particularly enjoy not knowing what was going on, but it was the reality of having a Lovegood for a friend.

"Witch's Ganglion, isn't it?" Hermione answered, familiar with the nickname, which was given due to the red skin of the bulb of the plant. During her Healer training, she'd brushed up on eastern medicine and the potion items they stocked at St. Mungo's, but Witch's Ganglion was one she'd found interesting despite it being quite difficult to procure west of Nepal, mostly due to its lacking description in her textbooks. "We know very little of it, but it's supposed to have quite powerful magical properties. It's a key ingredient in the Potion of All Potential."

"The Potion of All Potential?" Ginny sputtered, setting down her glass of water. "No one's correctly made that in over one hundred years." The exact recipe for the Potion of All Potential had been destroyed just after its invention by its creator who claimed it was too powerful for mass consumption. Many had tried recreating it with the ingredients known to be part of the potion, but any and all attempts had been unsuccessful. The exact recipe had died with the inventor, who only made it once during his or her lifetime.

"Strawberry's Cure has an invisibility property to it." Luna explained like it was common knowledge. "Theoretically, you could rub it on your skin for a temporary return to your arm's original state."

"Except it's rather volatile. No one really knows how to handle it correctly." Hermione argued, and Ginny looked at her like she was crazy for even entertaining Luna's suggestion. Hermione felt a little crazy herself (knowing that she'd nearly died when Xenophilius had hung an explosive horn of the Erumpent in his home, utterly convinced it was the horn of some mythical creature) but given that she'd lived with the shame of being branded by a psychotic witch for almost nine years, she was willing to consider any possible lead to reduce the appearance of the cursed letters.

"And no one's really even sure it exists." Ginny interjected. "It could've just been made up by the creator of the Potion of All Potential as a method of keeping people from ever learning the true recipe."

"It exists." Luna continued, undeterred by Ginny's negativity. "My great aunt Elowen travelled to Vietnam and saw it growing in the ponds. Later that evening, she got bitten by a Spargle-Jutted Norflax and used the Strawberry's Cure to treat the bite. Well, it didn't treat it obviously, but she thought she'd treated her wounds because they disappeared when she covered them with the Strawberry's Cure. Moments after she wiped it off, the bites reappeared, so I suppose it wouldn't really help your situation, then, would it?" Luna drifted off, venturing into another subject all on her own as they placed their orders. While the conversation throughout the meal ventured into other subjects, Hermione kept Luna's suggestion at the back of her mind. No one had successfully invented a product or potion to cure wounds inflicted by a cursed blade, and (given her knack for research) Hermione had tested quite a few to see if minimally, she could reduce the appearance of the scar from nearly fresh-looking to somewhat healed. But the suggestion that there was something out there she hadn't tested that could reduce the appearance of a fresh wound to nothing, even if it was for the briefest of moments? That was news to Hermione, and news that little would be able to sour.

Merlin, of course, decided to test that theory later that evening when Hermione got home. Having Apparated into her bedroom, Hermione wasn't aware that she had a visitor until she had changed into her pyjamas and brushed her teeth. She walked into the main living space to retrieve her medical journals she used to take notes whenever she had a thought on her scar and nearly jumped at the appearance of a certain redhead who was standing by her fireplace. Hermione jumped and threw her hand to her chest, her heart racing.

"Merlin, Ronald, how long have you been standing there?" She exclaimed, admonishing her uninvited guest. "I could have hurt you!" Aware that she wasn't carrying her wand for the first time in what must've at least two years, Hermione scolded herself for letting her guard down enough to risk getting hurt. What if it hadn't been Ron? What if it had been an intruder?

"Sorry." Ron apologised, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand as he stepped forward. "I just, needed to talk to you, I guess."

"At eleven at night?" Hermione glanced at the clock on the mantle, confirming the late hour. "This couldn't have waited until tomorrow? You couldn't have owled me?" Hermione was being accusatory and angry, and she knew it wasn't what a loving partner was supposed to say, but blimey, she had been having such a lovely time being by herself; no fights, no hurt feelings, no emptiness at the realisation that her relationship was dying and she was forcing herself to witness its demise because she couldn't leave...Ron had only been back in her life for minutes and all these feelings of resentment and anger were already bubbling back up into her mind.

"I said sorry." Ron blustered, a little surprised at Hermione's so clearly negative reaction. Hadn't she missed him? Hadn't she wished to see him like he'd wished to see her?

"Right, you did." Hermione rubbed her eyes tiredly, forgetting all about what she'd set out to do that night. "Well? What was so important that you pop over to my flat at this hour?"

Gobsmacked, Ron stared at his fiancée, wondering what was going through her head. He couldn't bother trying to figure it out as keeping up with Hermione when she was like this was nearly impossible. Pushing aside his confusion, Ron spoke of why he was there.

"It's been a week and a half, Mione." He breathed, and both parties stilled, Hermione beginning to understand what their conversation was going to entail. She wasn't ready.

"Ron-"

"No, Hermione, I've thought all of this out, I just need to say it." Ron interrupted and Hermione waited while he took a deep breath, refocusing. "I miss you. And I'm sorry that I assumed you were with Malfoy for any reason other than to treat him as a patient. As if the two of you could even be friendly, let alone shagging." Ron scoffed and swallowed thickly, completely unaware as to how Hermione was feeling in that moment. "I was jealous." Ron explained. "You've just been spending so much time obsessing over him that I've felt ignored."

"Please, Ron." Hermione stopped him, holding her hand up to quiet him. "You cannot blame the past month on the reason we're in this predicament now. This has been going on for months, plural. We're not happy, and it's because we're on two entirely different planes of reality." Having started, Hermione found herself unable to stop. It felt nearly uncontrollable as she spilled her emotions and frustrations out to Ron who - to his credit, she thought - didn't interrupt.

"You're ready for a family, Ron. You want me to marry you, and bear your children, and prepare your home for you while you work, and I can't give that to you, at least not any time soon. I know that now! I want to see the world, and learn everything I can, and be with a partner that challenges me and my thinking, not a partner that degrades me for having my own opinion." It was then that Hermione noticed the wetness on her cheeks. _This is it_ , she thought. _This is the end_.

Ron, on the other hand, seemed to be unaware of Hermione's internal dialogue. "That's not fair." He argued. "When have I ever degraded you for your opinion?"

"Ron, please don't do this. Let's not rehash what's in the past." Hermione pleaded, knowing it would only lead to a bigger fight.

"No, I will do this. Because what it feels like you're telling me is that you don't care to be my fiancée anymore."

A heavy silence fell between the two as Ron waited for Hermione to deny his accusation, and it was with frustration and heartache that she couldn't give him what he wanted. As it began to dawn on him - that this was the last night he could call Hermione his partner - Ron lashed out in desperate attempts to postpone the inevitable. He tried pleading, and reminiscing, and yelling, and at one point, even resorted to blaming Hermione for the predicament they were in now. As much as she wanted to lash out and quarrel, and explain that she wasn't the only person letting this relationship fail, Hermione held back and took his words, knowing that eventually, he would run out of insults and come to accept the fact of what was happening.

Finally beginning to accept what was happening, Ron sat on the couch opposite the fireplace, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Hesitantly, Hermione approached - having been standing in the kitchen area - and sat on the back of the sofa so she could be near the man she loved.

"I am so, so sorry, Ron." Hermione reached for his shoulder, but he yanked it away from her grasp.

"Don't you dare say you're sorry." Ron disputed. "We wouldn't be in this mess if you were truly _sorry_."

"I can be apologetic without being remorseful." Hermione gently retorted. "I care, so very deeply, for you, and this was inevitable. We've grown apart, and our lives no longer fit together as they once did. Maybe I've changed, and maybe this truly is my fault, but no matter the case, I cannot apologise enough for how this has all ended." When he didn't respond, Hermione continued. "I do love you, Ron."

He jumped up at those words, as though the suggestion that despite all that had happened, Hermione could still love him was unpalatable. Knowing the behavior, and that at any moment, Ron would walk through those green flames, to disappear from her life for Merlin knows how long, Hermione rounded the couch and wrapped her arms around Ron's neck, resting her chin on his shoulder in a final embrace. Ron reciprocated, albeit with less ardor, his hands loosely holding Hermione around her waist. The two breathed each other in, gripping to each other with the awareness that once they left this room, they were no longer the partners they'd been for so long. T

hey held onto each other - for minutes or hours, neither knew - and when Hermione loosened her grip and leaned back, she held his hands and took note of the lack of jewelry on her left ring finger. The engagement ring Ron had given Hermione had been a plain, gold band with a single round diamond on it, but due to her line of work, Hermione hardly ever wore the ring and instead stored it in her jewelry box, just next to her mother's ring.

"Just a moment." She told Ron, letting go of his hands to go to her bedroom and retrieve the ring. She dug into the box and held the ring tightly in her hand, finding it somewhat symbolic that she didn't wear the ring as often as her intended would've liked. Maybe it was a representation of the rest of their relationship.

Ring in hand, Hermione returned to the living room, her heart dropping when she saw the empty room. With a sigh, she set the ring on the mantle, staring into the still cooling hearth as she wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks.

"Goodbye, Ron."

* * *

 ** _"I would hardly call you an enemy anymore, Malfoy." Hermione rolled her eyes, far too aware that any humour she held in her voice was only there to mask any sincerity she might've felt. "More like an acquaintance."_**

 ** _"Well, I suppose it could be worse." Draco mused, and as grey eyes met brown, the two shared a knowing smile._**


	13. Chapter 13

**Hello all. I'm back with another chapter! I hope you all love it. I know I loved writing it ;)**

 **I'll keep this brief: thank you for the support you've all shown me! I so greatly appreciate hearing your feedback and it does help me write, and often gives me guidance for how I should develop the chapters I'm currently writing, so please keep it up!**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

A funny sense of emptiness washed over Hermione as she carried the heavy jar of light purple potion down to the Floos on the main floor. She'd made this trek three times (four, counting the time Draco barged into her home uninvited for medical care), and since the overall treatment of mortuus textus was supposed to span four weeks, this was the last trip she'd be taking to Malfoy Manor. And while she couldn't quite place the feeling that flowed through her as she stepped into the fireplace - hand filled with Floo powder - Hermione was aware that some bit of her, however small it was, was going to miss her weekly ritual afternoons with Draco. No, she wouldn't miss the journeys to Malfoy Manor, or the looming sense of dread that tightened in her chest whenever she walked the first floor of the home, but she was just beginning to enjoy Draco's company as more than a patient.

There were moments when that wasn't the case, like when he analysed her in a way that felt far too personal and accurate to be done so by someone who was practically a stranger, but for the most part, Hermione found conversation with Draco to be stimulating and refreshing. He was intelligent, it was evident to anyone who held more than a ten second conversation with him, and well cultured, and conversations with him weren't solely comprised of sports, work, or family, unlike some men in her life.

 _Blimey_ , there she went _again_ comparing Draco to Ron again. She'd have to stop that habit.

Draco was waiting for her in the drawing room, pensively scowling at a place near her feet as she stepped over the hearth. Despite her complaint that Draco knew her too well for a stranger, Hermione knew him as well, too, and she knew that whatever had Draco brooding was unrelated to her and private, though her curiosity was itching to know what it was that had him so wound up in thought. When he made eye contact with her, it was hollow and distant, though he did smile politely. Hermione reciprocated.

"Quite ready to rid yourself me already, eh?" Hermione jested as the two walked to Draco's study in silence. While Hermione was by no means short, Draco's height lent itself to long legs, and long legs meant long strides that Hermione could barely keep up with comfortably if he decided to walk quickly, as he did now. Unaware of his pace, Draco slowed to meet Hermione's needs.

"Sorry." He apologised, not offering any further explanation. Hermione wrinkled her nose in displeasure, having hoped for a more detailed explanation, but clearly whatever Draco was dealing with, he intended to stay tight lipped. She didn't press the issue any further, thought she didn't make herself easy to ignore.

"Though I suppose I wouldn't blame you if you _were_ ready to rid yourself of me. After all, my presence is solely to rub ointment onto a wound of yours for six hours straight. I hardly think I would be inclined to let that type of person into my home if I were on the receiving end of such a process. Granted I will inform you, it's no more pleasant on the giving end, in case you were inclined to believe I got some enjoyment out of the process..." Glancing over, Hermione saw that not only _wasn't_ Draco listening, but he still hadn't dropped the sour look he'd worn since she first arrived. "Actually, it is quite enjoyable." Hermione redirected, trying a new tactic. "I rather like the feeling of cold, somewhat slimy, medicinal goo between my fingers, especially if it's for a toxic wound. It just warms my insides thinking about it." When Draco didn't respond again, Hermione huffed and stopped walking.

"Malfoy." She called to him, waiting as he turned around, barely aware she wasn't at his side anymore.

"What?" He nearly whined, familiar with the expression Hermione bore. He'd seen her make the face at her friends during their schooling, which would lead Harry and Ron to dramatic fits as a result of her look, and he'd seen his mother make the face, when Draco would keep a secret that she was prepared to wriggle out of him, whatever the cost.

"Don't you 'what' me." She scolded, placing her free hand on her hip. "I know we're not friends, but I bloody well know you're hiding something right now, and whatever it is, it appears to be eating you alive. Now, am I going to have to Legilimency to get an explanation, or are you going to come out of your funk?"

"You're too kind to an old enemy, Granger." Draco deflected, knowing that yes, he could block even the most powerful of Legilimens, so Hermione shouldn't be an issue, but sometimes steering the conversation in another direction was more effective. "Maybe your concern would be better suited for one of your mates that actually _have_ interesting lives worth prying into."

"I would hardly call you an enemy anymore, Malfoy." Hermione rolled her eyes, far too aware that any humour she held in her voice was only there to mask any sincerity she might've felt. "More like an acquaintance."

"Well, I suppose it could be worse." Draco mused, and as grey eyes met brown, the two shared a knowing smile. "I feel honoured to be an acquaintance of _the_ Hermione Granger."

Hermione reddened, a queer feeling bubbling in the pit of her stomach at Draco's use of her full name, and she dropped the subject since Draco was clearly returning to his normal state. Draco smirked to himself, knowing he'd successfully navigated Hermione out of territory he wasn't desperate enough for her to enter. At least not yet.

"So you like this then, do you?" Draco asked, clasping his hands behind his back as they walked. Hermione looked at him in confusion. "The treatments." He clarified. "Never struck me as a sadist; I suppose it shouldn't be all that surprising - what with Weasley being your choice of partner and all - but to derive pleasure from inflicting discomfort upon others? That hardly seems like the kind of person who would want to be a Healer."

Hermione ignored the playful jab about her sexual preferences and instead opted to return with something true. "I never wanted to be a Healer. I always thought I would do something more meaningful with my life. Something that could change the world for others so that they didn't have to be limited to what others expected them to be." She thought of the house-elves and her plight to free them all, yet Draco thought of her: Muggle-born in a world full of wizards where many bore prejudices against her kind.

"Once the dust had settled after Voldemort's demise, the Ministry presented Harry, Ron, and I with jobs as Aurors, but I was tired of being part of the destruction, so when I was offered a position as a Healer, following an extra two years of specialised education, of course, I accepted, knowing that while it wasn't my dream position, at least I would be helping people in some capacity." They'd come to a stop in front of Draco's office, neither interrupting the conversation to step over the threshold that transformed them from acquaintances to patient and Healer.

"Anyway," Hermione smiled sadly, "even if I _was_ a sadist, Ron and I broke up, so...that's that." She shrugged, nearly refusing to make eye contact with Draco. When she did, she wasn't able to make sense of the look he wore, and she nearly asked what it meant. Was he disappointed she and Ron had broken up? Bothered? Annoyed? Guilty? But why should he care at all?

"I'm sure it's temporary." He finally spoke, offering words of reassurance. The words surprised Hermione, since they seemed far more caring than she would've ever expected from Draco. "It's not as if Weasley can take care of himself, so he'll need you back." _There was the insult._

"Wow, Malfoy, you certainly know how to reassure a girl, don't you?" Hermione chuckled, rubbing her neck tiredly. "Not that I need reassuring, really. We'll get back together if things work out, and if they don't...then it is what it is." She wore a slightly bitter smile, knowing that things would only get better if either Ron or Hermione reevaluated what they were looking for in a partner, and both were likely too stubborn to make that kind of change.

"And you can't convince me you're not a little pleased I dumped Ron." Hermione pointed a finger in Draco's face and he looked down it, smirking a little too widely.

"You broke up with him? Oh how absolutely sublime." He gushed, though it did seem somewhat artificial. "Tell me, did he cry?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed, taking charge and opening the door to the study. She walked in and took off her coat, hearing Draco enter behind her and busy himself at the desk. It had become somewhat ritualistic; Hermione turning her back to allow Draco to disrobe in private, so it was with embarrassment that Hermione realised she was imagining Draco unbuttoning his shirt, carefully removing just his right arm, keeping his left covered. Never before had she imagined him in undress, and she wasn't now, either. At least she wouldn't admit it to herself if she was. It was for privacy's sake that she had to visualise him as he changed, wasn't it? How would she know to turn around if she didn't know when he was finished?

When she imagined Draco was laying on the table, she turned, nearly correct in her prediction. Draco was adjusting his elbows to get comfortable when she saw him, and it was with a frown that she noted he looked thinner than ever.

"Malfoy," Hermione chided, carrying the jar of potion over to the desk. She set it down and tightened her ponytail. "Have you been eating?"

Draco groaned and put his clothed arm over his eyes, resting his head on the desk. "I swear to Merlin, Granger, if you start in on that again." He warned, well aware that he was losing weight. It wasn't intentional (and he didn't like the way he looked in the mirror) but the toll his new life was taking on him left him with very little interest in food. The last thing he needed now was an angry Healer Granger to add to the list of stressors.

"We've been over this." She said soothingly, trying to be supportive. "You need to eat; it will help with the healing process. Your body needs to be in prime shape to help fight this spell's damage, and starving yourself is the absolute opposite of what you should be doing." Hermione wasn't aware her words weren't soothing at all and rather had the opposite effect on Draco, so she continued. "To deprive yourself of proper nutrition is the equivalent of being ill while trying to recover. It's an essential element of helping yourself get well."

"As if I'm not already aware." Draco lowered his arm and hissed, narrowing his eyes at Hermione. "You act as though this is some intentional attempt at starving myself; as though I want to keep from returning to being _normal_ again...or whatever it is I was before all of this shit happened." He laid his head back and closed his eyes. "It may all come to light someday, Granger, but for now, know that this mistake I make is one made with eventual regret. I'm certain that in the future, I will view this period of my life with many regrets, let this be the greatest among them." He opened his eyes and looked at Hermione, who sat and watched him, transfixed. "If it so pleases Healer Granger, to be at the forefront of my mind."

A heavy silence fell between the two, and a strange tension that made it nearly unbearable for Hermione to look away from the eyes that bore into hers. Who was this person? This cautious, tormented, vulnerable man couldn't possibly be the same person she knew growing up. Hermione knew Draco had faced many trials following their formative years; first with his father's imprisonment, then Voldemort taking up residency in his home, the stint in Azkaban, and now the death of his parents, one of whom he seemed to love very much. He couldn't possibly be the same child he was when he offered Harry a hand in friendship in their first year. But who was he now, then? Who was Hermione supposed to treat him as?

"I shouldn't be one to judge." Hermione blinked, finally breaking the silence. "I suppose I suffered a similar situation after my parent's...well, I was living with the Weasley's until I found my own home, and since she didn't know what else to do for me, Molly cooked. And cooked. And cooked. And so in turn," she paused.

"You ate. And ate. And ate." Draco began to smirk, letting the tension fully dissolve.

"I almost gained a stone!" Hermione exclaimed. "I didn't know what else to do, she just kept feeding me, and I wasn't taking care of myself - I barely slept and Sleeping Draught did next to nothing - so I thought at least if I ate, I was doing something I was supposed to."

"Took it a little too far, did you, Granger?" Draco jested, his familiar sense of humour returning to the room. "Ate one too many ploughman's?"

"More like five too many." Hermione snorted, sitting in the large, leather chair. She unscrewed the cap on the jar and dipped her hand in, placing the first scoop on Draco's skin like it was second nature. "I was beginning to resemble Millicent Bulstrode by the time I came to my senses."

At that, Draco began to chuckle, which turned into a full bodied laugh, and Hermione scrambled to capture the potion as it slid off his convulsing frame.

"Careful!" She hollered, but it was lost on Draco, who was laughing harder than he had potentially ever, but definitely more than he had as of the last two months. Tears began to stream from his eyes and he clutched at his stomach, his muscles aching as he envisioned a puffed up Hermione, which hardly even seemed feasible, given that her frame was much smaller than their once classmate.

"Oh stop laughing, will you?" Hermione pleaded weakly, though she found herself beginning to giggle, partially due to the absurdity of the situation, partially because she'd never seen Draco laugh so genuinely, and she found it difficult to stop him in what was a moment he was so clearly enjoying.

"Granger," Draco began as his laughs began to fade, "you couldn't look like Bulstrode no matter how hard you tried." He chortled at the mention of Millicent's name, trying to calm himself.

"Maybe so, but that doesn't mean I didn't feel like her." The two briefly made eye contact and all seriousness was lost, both dissolving into a fit of giggles. As they returned to a normal state, Draco let out a breath and patted Hermione on the back of the hand, which was still clutched to his side.

"Thank you for that, Granger, I didn't realise how much I needed a good laugh."

"Yes, well don't expect me to bring you any photographs." Hermione retorted and Draco smiled blissfully at the thought of proof, completely unaware that his hand still rested against her's, though Hermione was fully aware, and now focused entirely on the way his lithe, pale fingers covered the entirety of her hands. It was odd to feel a sense of protection from such a motion, but the weight of Draco's palm served to reassure Hermione that whatever fears and concerns lingered following her parent's deaths, she wasn't alone.

"I don't have something stuck to me, do I?" Draco asked and Hermione jumped, looking up to Draco's face. "Besides a little Granger, of course, who won't seem to let go no matter how much I suggest otherwise." He looked down to her hands and removed his own, resting it under his head.

"Right." Hermione blushed, embarrassed to have been caught staring. She went back to rubbing Draco's ribs vigorously. "Back to work, then."

Though neither was aware of the other's thoughts, both sat contemplatively, pondering the same subject: were they crazy for thinking that the other meant more to them than they were willing to admit? For Hermione, she thought it meant friendship - she had always loved making friends - but for Draco...well, for Draco, he thought his affinity for Hermione came from longing. He was lonely (now more than ever), and she was able to open him up like no one else and didn't reject him for whatever missteps he made, and to Draco, in his sad, small world, that translated into a desire to be more than just acquaintances with Hermione. To have more than just moments of necessity where she treated him for an illness he couldn't treat himself. To have more than just moments of amusement and joy when she was required to be there.

And he hated himself for it.

He didn't deserve Hermione's kindness, or companionship, or anything more than what she gave him now. Hell, if he was completely honest with himself, he didn't deserve even that. He had tormented her when they were children; hated her for her blood; spewed vitriol at her because of her superior intelligence. He had been cruel and deceptive and what right did he have to accept her generosity? He was no better now than he was as a child. He was still a coward willing to take whatever he was given, whether or not he had earned it.

Draco stewed in his sorrows while Hermione worked, and after some time, the rhythmic motion lulled Draco into a light sleep, his arms going limp as he drifted off. Hermione was aware Draco had fallen asleep, but she recognised some of his behaviors from her own time following the war, and she let him nap, hoping that if it meant he wasn't sleeping at night, maybe this now would help to heal him. Alone with herself, Hermione thought back to his words. Was she at the forefront of his mind? As a healer or a friend? Something more? No, Draco wouldn't think of her like that. She was certain he had moved on from his childhood prejudice against Muggle-borns, but to assume he wanted anything more than a healer was just vanity claiming that her excitement at making a new friend was misplaced.

Not that she wanted something _more_ with Draco - she had just broken up with Ron after all, she wasn't ready for any relationship - but to consider the idea felt harmless enough. That maybe someday, she could go out to lunch with Draco as friends, and maybe they would flirt innocently, sharing a dessert and tea before wandering the streets, window shopping. Maybe a stray photographer would see the pair and snap some pictures, Draco taking Hermione by the hand and pulling her away from the public eye and into a small bookshop where silence was revered and no paparazzi would dare disturb. Maybe they would wait out the photographer and browse the shelves, Draco picking up the books for Hermione that were out of her reach. Maybe she would turn to show him one of her favorites as he was placing another back on the shelf, positioning the two just inches from each other. And maybe, just maybe, they would kiss, and all the turmoil and distance that had ever kept them apart would crumble around them, leaving just two souls standing, reaching for each other amidst a sea of nothingness.

Hermione's hands slowed, preventing her from losing track of her pace as she became aware of what her daydream had morphed into. Blimey, did she have _feelings_ for Draco Malfoy? She couldn't possibly! Could she? It felt far too confusing and impossible to even entertain, but what had that train of thought been if not some manifestation of her subconscious?

Draco began to rouse at the lack of motion, rubbing his eyes blearily. "Excuse me, I didn't mean to nod off." His voice was heavy with sleep and it brought Hermione back to the present. "Are we finished already?" He asked, looking at the nearly empty jar by his hip.

"Almost." Hermione confirmed, nodding quickly. "Just a few more rounds, I imagine."

"Brilliant." Draco sighed. "You know, it seems you've finally managed to find a pattern to all of this that quickens the process, and it's just in time to be finished with it all."

"It is, isn't it?" Hermione mused, having forgotten for the briefest of moments that this was indeed the last time she would have reason to see Draco. While she could've potentially fudged and pretended she needed to see him once more for a final checkup, Draco was a smart man and had likely done his research and knew that if the potion had been successful, it would be evident immediately after the final treatment. This really would be the final day Hermione got to see Draco without some personal reason.

"Does that disappoint you?" Draco asked her, trying to gauge the look on her face. "That you won't have any further reasons to torture me?"

"No." She answered quickly. "No, not at all." Hermione chewed on her lip as she poured another dose of potion into her hands. "Does it disappoint you?" She looked up to Draco, who seemed to be hiding all kinds of secrets behind those dark eyes.

"No." Draco responded with the same speed Hermione had. "I thought we had established that I hardly enjoyed being on the receiving end of such a...slimey process."

"Fair enough." Hermione nodded. "Then let me be the first to congratulate you," she poured the rest of the potion out, working quickly to rub it in, "on your completion of the mortuus textus treatment." She removed her hands and smiled at her work, watching as the light purple potion dissipated, revealing an expanse of fresh, nearly white, healthy skin.

"Is it really finished?" Draco asked, sitting up. He stretched to view Hermione's handiwork, aware only that his skin looked normal. "Quite anticlimactic, actually. I was expecting something grand for the finale."

Hermione balled up her fists and in a flash, spread her fingers out, willing the magic to flow through them. It did (just barely) and the tiniest bit of sparkles erupted from her palms. "That better?" She asked and Draco sat, unmoving, trying to work out what she had just done. He'd never seen any magic quite like it.

"How- what- You're incredible, Granger." He breathed, truly humbled by the level of magic she seemed to possess.

"No, it's just some trick George taught me." Hermione tried to ignore the blood rushing to her cheeks and shrugged, placing her hands in her lap. "He was trying to find a trick for his exploding whistle snaps, and he came upon this bit of magic. Useless, really, but very simple to master because of its ineffectiveness."

"You're selling yourself short." Draco argued. "Wandless magic, brilliant Healer, party tricks; you're far more talented than you're willing to let on."

"Thank you." Hermione tucked a loose curl behind her ear, scrunching up her nose as the remnants of potion on her fingers stuck to her hair. "Do you mind if I use the bathroom? I fear I'm making a bigger mess of myself than I already am."

Draco watched the strands of hair coil upon themselves, now coated with a shiny liquid that made them curl. "Please do. I have too many bathrooms to use all by myself." He stood up and re-buttoned his shirt as Hermione shrunk the jar and put it in her purse. Draco led the way down several halls, twisting and turning until he stopped in front of a large, ebony door.

"It's just a left turn then right to the stairs." Draco gestured, placing his hand in his pocket. "I expect you'll be able to find your way to the dining room for dinner."

"I...you don't have to put up with me you know." Hermione said, worried she was pushing some unspoken boundary by having invited herself to dinner. "I'm happy to find scrounge up something at home."

"It's no trouble, Granger." Draco responded. "Mimmy will be pleased to see you if you stay. If you want to see her, of course."

Hermione paused. She liked Mimmy; the elf was well meaning and an impressive model of her kind, but she didn't understand boundaries, and brought up memories and emotions Hermione had worked so long to bury.

"I would love to see her." Hermione nodded reassuringly and smiled tightly. "I'll meet you down there, yeah?"

Draco nodded and mirrored Hermione's expression before turning and walking down the hall, leaving Hermione to her business. She went into the bathroom and washed her hands thoroughly, scrubbing herself of every inch of potion that remained on her skin. With irritation, Hermione noted that she'd gotten some in her hair, and while there were charms to clean, there was something about magic that didn't mix well with her hair, so instead, Hermione took the band out of her hair and gathered some warm water into her hands, rubbing the affected strands between her hands until they were clean of any potion. They hung limply against her cheek, cleaned of whatever sweat and humidity had poofed up the rest of her hair, so Hermione quickly ran her wet fingers through her hair, practically resetting whatever kinks and frizz had accumulated through the day. As she stared at herself in the mirror, Hermione weighed Draco's words from just a week ago. He'd suggested that Hermione's obsessive tendency to put back her hair stemmed from a desire to please Ron. He hadn't been entirely wrong, she knew, but what now? Now that Ron was no longer her partner, why did she still choose to continue her grooming habits that were for him?

With a newfound confidence, Hermione left her hair down and exited the bathroom, a bit of pride coursing through her veins as she realised that she was turning over a new leaf. A leaf that didn't involve doing things for other people. And in her excitement, Hermione walked right past the hallway that led to the stairs, finding herself utterly lost within minutes. Now which turn had Draco said to make? First left, right? But how many turns had she made since then? Which of the many, identical hallways was the path back to the staircase?

" _It's straight behind you, fourth hallway on the left._ " A muffled voice rang from the other side of the door Hermione found herself facing.

"Excuse me?" Hermione asked, wondering if she should open the door.

" _The stairs to the main floor. Fourth hallway on the left._ " The feminine voice spoke again, repeating itself. " _I've been lost before, too. Believe me, it's far too easy in this home._ "

"Right. Thank you." Hermione hesitated.

" _You may come in, I won't bite._ " The voice goaded and ever the Gryffindor, Hermione was too curious to pass up on such an invitation. She turned the handle and pushed the door inward, walking into the room. It appeared to be a drawing room, filled with books, two sofas facing each other, and a piano by the window. Hermione looked around the room as she walked through it, no one coming forward to meet her.

"Turn around." The voice, clearer than ever, spoke, and Hermione turned, her stomach knotting up tightly when she saw who the voice belonged to.

There on the wall, looking more alive than ever, was Narcissa Malfoy, smiling knowingly at Hermione.

"Hello, Miss Granger."

* * *

 _"A mother knows all, Miss Granger." Narcissa smirked languidly, the expression eerily similar to one Draco had made many times in his life. "No matter how terribly Draco tries to mask his true intentions from all those around him, I'm aware. And I suspect you are too."_


	14. Chapter 14

**All right, so this took me too long, I will grant you. I'm sorry. Life, am I right? Anyway, I'm trying to get on a more regular schedule, so hopefully that helps with updating quicker. Also, reviews always are a nice reminder that you all like what I'm doing ;) I mean, _I_ like what I'm doing, but you all? You all mean so much more than you can imagine. I like to think all of your feedback and input has improved not only the story, but my writing as well. **

**So review. Please.**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

"Mrs. Malfoy." Hermione greeted the portrait, uncomfortable with how lifelike the painting really was. She'd met her share of seemingly sentient paintings before, but never one that seemed so alive.

"Please, call me Narcissa." Narcissa responded, clearly aware of Hermione's discomfort. "You needn't worry, I was painted after my return from Azkaban. Whatever prejudices I once harboured in life, I'm aware of the kind of decimation they bring; I choose not to fight those battles in this form." She gestured to the frame around her. When Hermione didn't respond, she continued. "I must confess to you, child, your wariness is not unwarranted. This kind of painting requires a fair bit of dark magic to produce. I'm much more lifelike than you're accustomed to with portraits. And no, I'm not some horcrux." She answered preemptively, sniffing as though it was some kind of insult to even say the word. "I just knew that following the war, a greater target than ever would be on my family, so I commissioned these portraits from a friend in Moldova. All he required was a lock of hair of the subject of the portrait to be woven into the canvas. Upon the person's death, the portrait 'wakes up,' so to speak, so that if any family remains, they may have their loved ones nearby despite their passing."

"I don't see Lucius anywhere." Hermione said, finally finding her voice. Narcissa had never been her enemy; not really. Her intentions had always been to protect her family, no matter the cost. She was a good Malfoy by all standards, though perhaps, Hermione thought, a little soft for Lucius, who nearly sold his firstborn to Voldemort as a show of loyalty.

"No, I suspect he's being stored somewhere dark and unused." Narcissa spoke, a sour note in her voice. "Draco's contempt for his father isn't abated quite yet."

"Colour me surprised." Hermione mumbled, rolling her eyes. Of course whatever contempt Draco felt for his father was lingering; the decisions Lucius made for him as a child were still following him around, possibly trying to kill him.

"Do not speak as if you understand the circumstances." Narcissa snapped, her expression darkening. "You know nothing of our family, no matter how bright you may be. Lucius avoided the Dark Lord's workings for as long as he could. He protected us from His followers, and it was only when he could no longer avoid the Dark Lord's calling that he returned to his service, which was another measure to protect us."

" _Protect_ you?" Hermione asked, gobsmacked. "I know of his return to Voldemort's service. Harry saw Lucius in the graveyard when He rose again, I saw him when he attacked the ministry; I know what Lucius did to support his _Dark Lord,_ I don't see how anyone could view it as anything but blind support for a false god."

"And yet you spoke at his hearing." Narcissa countered, and when Hermione hesitated, Narcissa saw her opening. "You spoke at all of our hearings. At mine, for sparing Mr. Potter's life, at Draco's, for lying about Mr. Potter's presence in our home, and at Lucius's, for his surrender at the final battle. Yet here you stand, claiming your disdain for a dead man while treating his son - who shares many a trait with the man you claim a monster- with more than what many would consider a polite respect."

Hermione's voice caught in her throat. More than a polite respect? Is that how her care for a patient was perceived? As more than a polite respect? And more than that, how would a portrait, locked away in a drawing room, know of how Hermione had treated her son?

"You now try to process my meaning." Narcissa recogonised Hermione's expression. "Alas, the nature of the charm that keeps me so lifelike restricts me to this painting, so I haven't been spying, but Draco visits me often. Heartbreaking, really. My son knows I am the last tie to whatever positive memories he has from his life before my death, so he clings to that which he once had while trying to move forward. He talks about you." Narcissa dropped the fact, enjoying the way Hermione's eyes shot to hers. "A former brilliant hero turned cautious Healer, tormented by the ghosts of her past. Tell me, do you find solace in bonding with my son? I know he does you."

"We-we've gone through similar experiences. As a Healer, I find patients are comforted by something familiar."

"Ah, I think you mask the truth. Just as Draco does." Narcissa argued. "A mother knows all, Miss Granger." Narcissa smirked languidly, the expression eerily similar to one Draco had made many times in his life. "No matter how terribly Draco tries to mask his true intentions from all those around him, I'm aware. And I suspect you are too."

Overwhelmed by the accusation, Hermione turned and fled the room, hurrying down the corridors and stairs to escape whatever insinuation Narcissa had made at her. They were nothing more than acquaintances, she and Draco, even if she had a strange daydream in which he starred as the love interest. It was nothing more than that: a daydream. She couldn't possibly feel something more than a friendship with Draco, and there was no way he could he feel the same, no matter what Narcissa said. No, he _could_ feel the same. Because Hermione _didn't_ feel anything deeper than a superficial friendship. _Blimey._

"Are you all right?" Jumping at Draco's voice, Hermione turned and let her heart begin to settle. "I was just coming to find you." Draco explained, his brow knit in concern.

"Yes, I-I just got lost." Hermione said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Your home is too large and too monochromatic, I don't know how you can find your way without a trail of breadcrumbs." She jested and Draco smiled curiously, clearly aware Hermione wasn't fully being honest, but he didn't press it.

"I had to memorise the paths I took." Draco admitted, gesturing for Hermione to join him in the dining room. She walked through the doorway before him, two settings appeared at the end of the table just as they had been last time. "Father didn't like my previous method of marking the corners I needed to turn with chalk."

"But chalk can be cleaned so easily." Hermione scowled at the thought of being punished for something so easily fixed. The most irrational thing Hermione every thought her parents did was when they lectured her about playing in the front garden after dark and as she aged, she'd been able to make sense of it; but to discipline a child for such a harmless practice? It had Lucius written all over it.

"You're suggesting my father to be a reasonable man." Draco scoffed. "As though he didn't once threaten to Crucio me for sharing my opinion out of turn at an event when I was nine."

"What?" Hermione breathed, looking up to Draco, who wouldn't make eye contact as he pulled her chair out for her. "Malfoy," Hermione pressed, watching him sit down in the chair at the head of the table. "That's not right."

"Of course it isn't." Draco snorted. "No one's ever accuse my father of being right." He seemed to wince as he sat and Hermione nearly stood in reaction.

"Are you all right? Does something hurt?" She found herself reaching for his ribs and stopped herself, aware of Narcissa's voice in the back of her head.

"No, no." Draco countered, raising his hand to assure Hermione, who sat back and folded her hands in her lap. "Nothing's wrong."

"You're certain?" Hermione confirmed. "If there's anything wrong, I need to know. As your Healer."

"It's nothing. I promise. You've been nothing but a superior Healer." Draco tried to soothe her nerves. "Please, Granger, I'll be the first to tell you if I need assistance. We should really eat, I think Mimmy will take it personally if she comes in and we haven't touched our plates."

"Right." Hermione nodded, remembering for the first time that she was there to eat, not to obsess over Narcissa's accusation or Draco's behavior. She looked down at her plate, recognising the meal as duck confit, one of her favorite French dishes. When she took her first bite of duck, her eyes nearly rolled into the back of her head at its perfect seasoning and flavor. Merlin, the last time she'd had confit this good was when she was _in_ France. How were Draco's elves so well-versed in cuisine?

"Enjoying it?" Draco asked, an eyebrow quirked at Hermione. She nodded, mouth full of potato. When she swallowed, she dabbed her mouth with her napkin.

"I need the recipe for this one." She pointed to the dish before washing her bite down with a drink of white wine. When Draco chuckled she continued. "No, honestly, the last time I had any confit this delicious must have been in Bordeaux. By any chance, did you send your House-Elves to Le Cordon Bleu?"

"They've travelled." Draco glossed over the subject, aware that no, his House-Elves had not received any formal training, but they were more cultured than many wizards he knew. "We've had to entertain many a crowd, so they have to know what's expected to pass as authentic."

"Hm, well c'est authentique, if you ask me. I feel as though I should pay my compliments to the chef."

"No, please don't." Draco stopped Hermione, a clear look of worry in his eyes. "All it takes is one compliment to go straight to Mimmy's head. You didn't even compliment her last week, but your confirmation that you were returning for dinner tonight indicated that you must have enjoyed the food, so she spent the past four days preparing this duck. Thrump has been avoiding kitchen duties as often as possible due to her excessive habits. She even demanded Friday off so she could journey to France to be certain she did the dish justice."

"Well it shows." Hermione smiled to herself, secretly enjoying when Draco got worked up. He was always so composed and reserved that to see him passionate about something was more than a little pleasing.

The two spoke casually as they ate, and neither was surprised to find that it was easy to carry a conversation with the other. It was a little disconcerting to Hermione, who was questioning herself now more than ever, but all in all, the two got on very well. While last meal they had spoken of their pasts, tonight was heavily geared toward their futures. Draco didn't have much to say about the subject, clearly worried more so with his present than what was to come, so Hermione steered the conversation toward herself, willing to take on the topic if it meant reducing the awkwardness surrounding the topic of Draco's current dilemma. It was somewhat cathartic, Hermione would confess, to discuss her future with someone who hadn't always known her. Harry, Ron, Ginny, and even Luna knew Hermione as she once was and expected her to be a certain way in the future. Hermione didn't really have anyone else to discuss the issue with; so she told Draco all about how she'd thought she knew what she wanted in life, and how her breakup with Ron has led her to a crossroads where she doesn't now know what the next step is. Should she focus on her friendships? New relationships? Her career? And what of her career? Was she happy where she was? She knew what she was doing, and how it allowed her to use her expansive knowledge to help others, but was she really doing all she could? Work at St. Mungo's had felt like the light at the end of a very dark tunnel when she was twenty, providing guidance during a time when nothing made sense, but now? Now that she was facing a change in her life, she wasn't so certain it was enough.

Draco was silent, taking in every word Hermione spoke. She was interesting, and engaging, and far more introspective than any person Draco had ever known.

And she'd let her hair down.

Draco wouldn't say he was _entirely_ distracted by Hermione's appearance, just a little. Since returning into his life, Draco had only seen Hermione with her hair down once: when he'd showed up in her flat unannounced, but it felt different this time. She _looked_ different this time. Like she was no longer putting up some appearance for others to interpret and reach a certain result. Was it simply the hair though? Draco wondered. She had told him how her relationship with Ron was over, with finality this time, and Draco had known what an influence Ron had been on her. He'd seen the two interact when he was in Hermione's flat that day. He had heard the way they argued, and to be free of that had to be at least somewhat of a relief, even if it meant losing a long time partner. Not that he really knew what losing a partner was like. Draco's first (and so far only) relationship was with Pansy Parkinson in his fifth year. She was enamored with his wealth and bravado, she was a pretty enough pure-blood, and having grown up together, it seemed like a good match. Of course, Pansy stroked his ego with compliments and praise - which Draco wholly enjoyed - but when it came down to it, neither was romantically attracted to the other. Kissing Pansy had been like kissing a sister, and while others in his circle might've found no fault with such a thing, Draco didn't want a wife he didn't love and that didn't love him. It was the one thing he couldn't fault his parents for. Their connection was founded in a genuine love, not just born of necessity, and while Draco had a difficult time imagining what witch in her right mind would want to bear his children, he knew that whatever witch it was would have to want him for more than his bloodline.

He internally snorted at his train of thought (since when had he become a romantic?) and went back to dissecting Hermione. The only actual difference in her appearance was her hair, so it had to be that which made her feel so different. Surely it wasn't Draco's interpretation of any post-Ron personality changes; he didn't know her well enough to recognise those, did he?

"May I ask you a question?" Hermione changed the subject, aware Draco's attention had begun to drift off somewhere else. She was getting used to it, it seemed to be Draco's nature to only follow a subject for so long before he disappeared into his mind.

"I suppose." Draco conceded, hoping this line of questioning wouldn't delve into too personal territory. He smirked as Hermione held her finger up and washed down her bite with a drink of wine, her eyes closing briefly at the refreshing bitterness that cleansed her palette. She set the glass down and tucked one side of hair behind her ear, clearly thinking through how she planned to phrase her question.

"Last time we had dinner, you seemed hesitant to take your seat." Hermione looked up at Draco and he anticipated where she was headed.

"And you noticed something similar tonight, so you wonder what it is." Draco concluded and Hermione nodded.

"If it's not too personal, that is."

"No, I wouldn't consider it personal. Well, it _is_ personal, but nothing all that private." He adjusted in his chair, his mind returning to place it did when he thought of his reason for displeasure. "This was my father's chair." He explained, looking down at his plate as he spoke. "He ate here every single night he was master of this home, no matter what time it was. He could arrive home in the early hours of the morning following an extended day at the office, and he would still sit here, commanding house-elves to and fro, demanding his meal. Every meeting he ever held, he sat in this chair. Being the head of the house was his lifelong goal; no one could take that from him.

"Until the Dark Lord came along, and my father handed over the seat with resignation and a severe awareness that he was losing all that he had worked for, to someone who was more powerful than him. So He sat in this chair, presiding over his court for months, testing His followers' loyalty - even my father's - killing any who failed, and I watched both these men base their importance on where they sat at a bloody table. So I refuse to let my worth be defined by something as trivial as a seating arrangement." Draco paused, willing his heart rate to slow. Maybe it _was_ private, he thought sourly as embarrassment seeped its way into his mind. He hadn't intended to elaborate so thoroughly on why the chair made him irritable, but just has she had before, Hermione had a way of encouraging Draco, silently assuring him that his thoughts and opinions were valid and wanted.

A surge of compassion spread through Hermione. She'd known what kind of feelings Draco held toward his father and Voldemort; she'd witnessed it time and time again since their reconnection, so she hated that they had such a profound effect on him, even over something so simple. Though clearly it wasn't really all that simple. This meant something - quite a lot, actually - to Draco, and here he was, grinning and bearing it because she was his guest. Guilt rooted itself in her belly, Hermione aware that she was now part of the problem, too.

"Then we shouldn't sit here, should we?" Hermione finally spoke, picking up her plate and Draco's. Rather than fuss about with the wine and silverware, Hermione turned and began marching toward the doors, leaving Draco to pick up the rest of their dinner as he followed her excitedly. He hadn't expected Hermione to do anything expect maybe pat his hand and tell him she was sorry that felt such a way, so when she made such a bold move, a sense of relief replaced the shame Draco had previously felt.

With a quick 'pop,' Mimmy appeared in the doorway, blocking Hermione's path.

"Is the meal not to Miss Hermione's liking?" Mimmy questioned, her ears dropping low. She wrung her hands and shuffled her feet, her oversized oxfords clattering about. "Mimmy thought Miss Hermione would like the confit de canard, but it must be terrible if she is leaving."

"No no!" Hermione stopped the house-elf from whatever punishment Mimmy was about to inflict on herself. Hermione was clearly familiar with Dobby's training, which had rubbed off on Mimmy, Draco noted with amusement. "It's delicious, Mimmy, I promise. See? I'm bringing it with me."

"Is it?" Doubt clearly laced Mimmy's voice still, her grapefruit-sized eyes looking up at Hermione for approval, or maybe manipulation, Hermione began to think. "Good enough that Miss Hermione would like dessert once she's finished her dinner?"

"Well, I don't think my enjoyment of the food can be indicated by eating more of it." Hermione had never particularly enjoyed the process of eating dessert after a meal. No, sweets deserved their own time and shouldn't be forced when one was already so full of other delicious goods. But then again, those big, blue eyes were quite convincing. "Oh all right." Hermione caved and Mimmy's mood shifted drastically as she clapped to herself.

"Mimmy will get started right away. Does Miss Hermione have an aversion to cream?"

"No." Hermione answered, wondering what was in store for her. She expected it to be delicious (since Mimmy never seemed to make anything poorly), but cream? Such a decadent flavor following confit? She'd have to start watching her waistline if she had any more meals cooked by Mimmy.

"Oh brilliant!" Mimmy gushed. "Mimmy will go prepare something now!" She disappeared as quickly as she'd come and after a moment's pause, Hermione righted her attention and continued to lead the way to another place for her and Draco to finish their meal. It was with a cold realisation that Hermione began to put together where she was, wandering the ground floor of the manor dangerously close to a certain room that held poisonous memories for Hermione. Draco noticed the slowing of her stride and was nearly as quick to notice where in his home they were, so he took the lead and gestured for Hermione to follow.

"You've never really gotten a tour, have you? You'll have to follow me." Draco spoke, hoping to distract Hermione as they walked past the drawing room she'd been tortured in. Admittedly, talking had its benefit for Draco, too, as he hated the memory of that day as well.

He was home for break, and it was a marvelous feeling to be rid of Voldemort, even if it was only for a short while, but of course, Bellatrix made certain the manor never felt too far removed from its leader's presence. Draco had been in his room - trying to ignore the muffled cackling and screaming that came from somewhere in his home - when he was called upon because some Snatchers thought they'd caught something good. They were right, Draco came to learn as he was forced to identify his schoolmates. They were all filthy and far too thin, clearly on the run, but one by one, Draco had been forced to indicate if he knew them or not. He'd tried so hard to avoid giving an answer. He couldn't, no matter how he felt toward them during their schooling. They were on the verge of death, starving and running from the pseudo-law, desperately trying to defeat something Draco only wished he could kill himself. He needed them, and he needed them away from his home, off on their heroic quest.

Then came the torture. He hadn't wanted to stay, he truly hadn't. It had been bad enough to have to identify Hermione, he didn't want to see her on the receiving end of Bellatrix's crucio for possessing something that was more rightfully her's than it had ever been Bellatrix's. He hadn't watched (Merlin knows what kind of shape he would be in now had he watched), but the screams and moans were enough to turn his stomach even today.

"Now, if I know you at all, Granger, I think you'll appreciate dining in this room." Draco said as he stopped in front of a set of doors, opening one enough for Hermione to see inside.

Curious, Hermione took a step forward and gasped, her eyes widening greatly at the sight before her. Draco had taken her to a library like no other private she'd seen, the room nearly half the size of a Quidditch field and two stories high, books lining all available wall space, though four massive arched windows lined the wall opposite where Hermione stood.

"Oh Draco, this is fantastic. You must have every volume of _Hogwarts: A History_ ever made." She continued to look around the room, in awe of the sight before her. Only Hogwart's library had ever made her feel this way before. There was something about magic mixed with books that made Hermione revert to her eleven year old self, brand new to wizardry and all it meant. She would never outgrow the sense of wonder.

"Thought you might like it." Draco smirked proudly, pleased with himself. Why hadn't he thought to take dinner here last time? "I think we have one of Bagshot's manuscripts laying around here somewhere..." He trailed off, a funny feeling lodging itself in his chest.

"Granger, did you just call me Draco?"

* * *

 _"I know the feeling, Granger." Draco pressed, willing himself not to bear his soul once more to the woman he feared he was growing too close to. "You might feel as though you've suffered at the hands of a villain, and you have, but I promise you, you are not alone."_


	15. Chapter 15

**Hi folks. So I'm very very sorry this has taken me so very long to get this to you. I've had a lot happen in my life in the last half-ish year that's led to me struggling with my mental health. I'm working through it now and through it all, your reviews have been helping me to remember that while things aren't going well for me, I'm bringing at least a bit of entertainment to some people out there, so thank you. Really. I've been (sadly) chugging away on this chapter since I left you all, so I'm sorry if it feels choppy or anything. I wanted to get it out to you all as quickly as I could so I'll likely go back and revise soon, but for now, here's chapter 15.**

 **Lots of love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

A pregnant pause fell between the two, both processing what had just transpired. Had she really called him Draco? Hermione wondered. She couldn't have, could she? He'd always been Malfoy, what would ever possess her to call him Draco? There was no familiarity between the two. Well, none that would justify such a change, of course. They were acquaintances. Not friends.

"Did I?" Hermione finally ended the silence, though she noted her voice sounded unsure. "Must've been a slip of the tongue." Before Draco could answer, Hermione turned her attention back to the expansive room before her. "Are you certain we can eat in here, Malfoy?" She made certain she spoke clearly this time, careful to use his surname. "This library is so immaculate; it doesn't look like a single person has _used_ it, let alone _eaten_ in it."

"It's needs wearing in, I'll concede." Draco also tried to brush past what had transpired, though it seemed to affect him more than her. Had Draco really ever heard her call him by his given name? Perhaps in passing, but never without the accompaniment of his last name.

"Though with the rate Thrump cleans at, it'll never get worn in." He muttered, following Hermione to a grand, round oak table in the center of the room. She set her plate down and placed Draco's next to her's, justifying that at an eight person table with a grandiose flower centerpiece, Draco couldn't possibly sit opposite her. So they sat next to each other, neither admitting that they much preferring the current seating arrangement over the alternative.

"So Thrump." Hermione spoke after they'd both settled in. "Has he been with your family very long?"

"Since his birth." Draco answered, washing down his bite with wine. "In 1862, I believe? His parents served some great grandfather of mine and they needed more help so," he shrugged, refusing to put to words to a known house-elf advocate that Thrump was a product of breeding, not love. "He's very sympathetic to the ideologies of his time." Draco explained, knowing very well that Thrump didn't like Hermione due to her upbringing, and while it might've once entertained him, the prejudices had become embarrassing, but his history with Thrump kept Draco from completely abandoning the elf.

"I can imagine." Hermione nodded, knowing that while Draco was practically apologising for Thrump's treatment toward her, she blamed neither for his treatment of her. Thrump had been indoctrinated by a family whose values hadn't changed in centuries. Well, maybe it was _beginning_ to change, Hermione conceded with a blush. Only a fraction of the Draco before her resembled the angry, judgmental child he'd once been. He was so different, in fact, that not only was he apologising, but he was apologising for the facist ideologies he'd once condoned himself. It was nice.

"When Harry inherited the Black home on Grimmauld Place from Sirius, it came with a house elf, Kreacher." Hermione explained, taking a bite of her duck. "He didn't like me very much either." She chuckled and leaned back in her seat. "Didn't like much of anyone, I suppose, apart from Regulus Black. And 'Miss Bella' and 'Miss Cissy.'" Hermione snorted, recalling the way Kreacher got a far off look in his eyes when he spoke of his former masters. At the time, Hermione felt irritation as she was the only one giving Kreacher any respect or support and he was still longing for his previous masters that would happily see Hermione dead. Not that she was bitter or anything. Just stating fact.

Whatever humour Hermione had felt at her less than accurate impression of Kreacher faded as she looked to Draco for a response, realising she'd brought up the one thing he likely longed to ignore. Or at least longed to pretend he didn't have a magical painting of his mother hanging in an unused room that he clearly visited on a daily basis.

"I'm sorry." Hermione apologised, all too familiar with the sour look of loss gracing Draco's fair features. "I wasn't thinking. Well I _was_ thinking, but just about Kreacher and his disrespect for the one person who was making a conscious effort not to ostracise him when he was alone after his master's death." She blathered on and on, her mind now moving to the portrait of Narcissa, which made her even more nervous. Hermione could see the internal struggle Draco was facing as he sat there, jaw working tensely and brow pulled low. She knew it all too well, some of her friends still refusing to bring up her parents for fear of her reaction, and now she was on the other end. _Did that mean progress?_

Draco, on the other hand, had found it jarring; to hear Hermione bring up his mother, especially in such a setting, was a reminder of her intended presence. She wasn't there for company, she was there to treat him for something that had killed his immediate family, something that he was still unable to solve. Draco had found that while life hadn't become any easier since his parents' untimely death, he had at least been able to push the memories of them toward the back of his mind; if only when he wasn't speaking to his mother via a portrait that reminded him far too much of the living version of her. He had found the painting several weeks after the attack, and it was only due to the fact that Narcissa began screaming at the top of her lungs and one of the portraits heard her that Draco ever found it. He'd found his father's too, but hadn't brought that one out to hang, much to his mother's disappointment.

"It's all right." Draco told her, even though he didn't really feel it was all right. Rather than focus on enjoying his limited time with Hermione, Draco was now focused on how little progress he had made regarding his mother's murder since he fired Rolph Caulfield. Instead of working toward an answer, he spent his days at work and his evenings, nearly drunk, talking to a portrait only animated by dark magic.

"You know, Mimmy really knows how to cook." Hermione changed the subject, knowing she wished others had done the same with her rather than instilling that they were truly apologetic. "Has she trained anywhere or is it a natural talent?" She took another bite of duck to show Draco she was still enjoying herself and things hadn't gotten awkward.

"She's travelled with us." Draco appreciated the effort and answered Hermione's question. "Met other house-elves from other places, explored their culture. She's very partial to Spanish cuisine but is ashamed of her paella."

"Ashamed?" Hermione asked curiously, wondering how bad the dish could be given how good the current was.

Draco smiled a little at Hermione's tone, lifting his wine glass to his lips for a drink. "Mimmy relies heavily on magic to complete her dishes and she can't seem to cook the rice just right. She's attempted it without magic, but either lacks the patience or skill required to do so."

Hermione pouted and put a hand to her chest. "Poor Mimmy." She lamented, receiving a look from Draco.

" _Poor_ Mimmy? The house-elf can make any food in the world and is happy to do so, but struggles a little with one dish. Is that really so detrimental?"

"If it bothers her, it bothers me." Hermione continued and Draco grumbled something under his breath as she spoke. "She's a kind and passionate creature that's suffered for years at the hands of torment and self-inflicted punishment. Her disappointment likely stems from a deep rooted insecurity that haunts her to this day."

A small part of Draco appreciated Hermione's consideration for another soul and how deeply it clearly allowed her to sympathize with others, but a greater part of his mind was almost irritated by her goodwill. It reminded him of how twisted and selfish his own view of the world was, and only highlighted how very different they were. They would never be friends. This was just another reminder that someone as kind and humble as Hermione was too good for him to even call an acquaintance.

"Not that she's still receiving that kind of care." Hermione clarified, noticing Draco had gone silent. Had she offended him twice in the span of ten minutes?

"No, of course not." Draco shook his head, returning to the conversation, though Hermione observed a bit of a wrinkle between his brows that hadn't been there before. So she _had_ offended him. Had it been because she'd brought up his mother? Implied that is care for Mimmy was subpar? She'd ruined their meal, hadn't she? With her insensitivity? Or had it been her hypersensitivity that had done it? She felt jittery after her meeting with Narcissa, maybe her anxiety still lingered and was having its affect on her ability to converse normally with Draco as she usually could.

"You mentioned earlier a sort of discontent, if you will, with your current position at St. Mungo's." Draco changed the subject in an attempt to lighten both their moods since clearly the two were retreating into their own concerns. "What is it you might pursue should you not be under their employment?"

"I don't know." Hermione answered honestly, taking her glass of wine in her hand as she leaned back in her chair. "I always thought potion making would be something I loved doing, so St. Mungo's was a great place to be, but I find that the majority of my work requires a wand and some bandages. You're the first case I've had in months that's allowed me to use the slightest bit of brainpower." She gestured to Draco with her cup before taking a drink.

"That's because you're brilliant." Draco retorted and Hermione choked on her wine, surprised at the compliment.

"I'm what?" She questioned, not particularly believing what she'd heard. A compliment from Draco Malfoy? What had she done to deserve it?

"Oh don't make me repeat it, Granger." Draco rolled his eyes. "You know you're brilliant and my pointing it out is simply stating a known fact. You're bored by your work because it's so basic compared to the experience you procured as a student. You want to be intellectually stimulated by your endeavors, and instead you're having to treat fools for their injuries they likely sustained over some arseholed bet."

"That's...fair." Hermione conceded with a sigh. She'd become complacent with time, and only with the upheaval of her life as of late had she begun to recognise it. "I have something I'm working on. As a side project, of course." Hermione admitted, comfortable enough with Draco to share the news. "I recently went out with Ginny and Luna, and Luna brought up something I haven't ever thought of. A plant called Witch's Ganglion, have you heard of it?" When Draco shook his head, she continued. "I'm not surprised, it's hardly known of in eastern culture, let alone ours. It has disappearing properties, but it only lasts moments. If I could find it and test it, I might be able to make a potion or cream or something that masks the appearance of cursed blemishes." Hermione found herself reaching for Draco's arm - the one that hid a deep and terrible secret he likely wished to be rid of, given how intently he tried to hide it - but she stopped herself, aware that that wasn't her place. That didn't mean Draco wasn't aware of her intentions, but he was grateful she didn't follow through on the action. He didn't let anyone touch his left forearm, even his mother, who had promised him that the mark didn't define him. While the tension in his body was beginning to dissipate, Draco could see that Hermione had seen it and was once again in her head, likely fretting over his reaction.

"This plant." Draco spoke, Hermione bringing her eyes to his. "Witch's Ganglion, was it?"

"Yes." Hermione nodded. "I know not if it'll even work; my research has been slow, there's so little written about it."

"I might have something of interest." Draco suggested, aware that his book collection was vast and varied. "If you can find it, you can borrow it."

"Can I?" Hermione asked excitedly, setting her fork down on her nearly empty plate. She brought her hands into her lap to keep from displaying her emotions too much.

"By all means." Draco gestured to the room and watched Hermione stand, pulling her wand from her pocket. She cast a Summoning Charm over the room and set her wand down, folding her arms across her chest.

"Now this is likely far too specific to gather anything, but let's try searching for Witch's Ganglion or Strawberry's Cure."

Draco watched contentedly as she scrunched her nose and tried again.

"How about Eastern potion making plants?" This time, her search produced a number of books, which hovered in line for her approval. She sorted through them one by one and those that had more than a paragraph pertaining to her subject of interest were set on the table while the others flew back to their places on the shelves. She continued her search, broadening and adjusting her search terms in order to find more books. As the time passed, the collection of books on the table grew to the point at which Draco could no longer look up from his own book and see Hermione chewing on her lip as she attempted to think of new related subjects to find.

Eventually, the reappearance of Mimmy with two dishes floating above her head reminded the two that Hermione had agreed to stay for dessert, so as Mimmy cleared the dinner plates and glasses, she set down two smaller dishes and what looked to be two mugs of hot chocolate.

"Mimmy hopes this pastry shall suffice as a proper dessert. Mimmy knows espresso is the preferred drink to accompany such a dish, but Mimmy thought it might keep Master Draco and Miss Hermione awake despite the late hour so Mimmy has prepared hot chocolate instead." Mimmy wrung her hands, and though Draco was about to reaffirm for Mimmy that whatever choice she made was sufficient, he stopped short when he saw what exactly Mimmy had made. Sitting on each plate was a perfectly made éclair, reminding him far too much of his mother. The memories of their excursions in Paris with her made him feel sick with longing for the time in his life when his mother was his protector and best friend; for the days when their biggest worry was whether or not his father would catch them and scold their frivolous behaviour. And while this desperation and upset at the memory might have rattled his temper, it was the awareness that his current house guest would have never wanted to know the boy he was in those memories that made him lash out.

"What possessed you to prepare this?" Draco directed his irritation at Mimmy, who - knowing exactly what she was doing - feigned ignorance.

"Mimmy prepared a French dessert to accompany a French dinner, a requirest Miss Hermione made."

At the accusation, Hermione looked between the wide eyes of Mimmy and frustrated gaze of Draco, who was staring at the plate with sharp disdain. Before she had a chance to defend herself, Draco cut in.

"Do not identify me to be a fool, Mimmy." He spat back, his eyes finding the small house-elf with inflammation. Hermione noticed that Mimmy didn't recoil at the confrontation and wondered if there was more to this scene than she knew, but no matter the case, this was an argument she had no place in and after the awkwardness strewn throughout the evening, maybe it was best she take this as an opportunity to remove herself and clear her head.

"Would you look at the time!" Hermione looked at the watch on her wrist and began piling the books she'd collected from Draco's library into her bag, lined with an extension charm. "I should be heading home, I believe I have much research to conduct now. Thank you for the books."

"But the éclair!" Mimmy cried out and Hermione took the pastry from the plate, took a bite, and set it back down, chewing. It took all her restraint not to reach out and take another bite of the delicious dish, but she maintained control.

"Delicious as always, Mimmy." She complimented, and Mimmy pouted, knowing there was no point in arguing.

Draco's stare shifted to Hermione and softened to a point that he looked as if he'd crumble if touched. He knew what he'd done; by making her distressed with his mood he was no better than his father had been to him, and now he was driving her away. Helplessly, he watched her fill her bag and when she finished, he stood and offered to walk her to the Floo, which Hermione politely accepted.

The two walked in silence, their shoes clicking loudly as they walked across the marble tiles, and when they passed the room that Hermione had been tortured in, it was clear that whatever ease she had felt during their evening was gone. It was with disappointment in himself that Draco realised his outburst had made their interaction less than ideal, and that he couldn't offer her support through her turmoil.

When they reached the drawing room, it was clear both had something they wished to say but neither knew how to express it. For Draco, it was to apologise for his outburst. For Hermione, it was to ask if this was the last time they'd see each other.

"Well, your curse should be healed." Hermione spoke, knowing her duty as a Healer was to inform her patient of their well being. "If you find it feeling or looking like anything other than a normal side, owl me and I'll come check it."

"Thank you." Draco responded, restricting his emotions as they bubbled within his chest. "I trust that with your proficiency, I'll be just fine." He smiled tightly and Hermione reciprocated the expression. For a moment, they looked like two strangers who had just met, and not the almost friends they were.

"I suppose I'll be off, then." Hermione answered and with a nod, collected a small handful of Floo powder and tossed it into the fireplace, glancing once more at Draco, willing him to speak to her. The look nearly broke Draco then and there with the desire to beg her not to leave on such terms. Instead, all he could do was extend her some sort of acknowledgement that everything around them was shit. That this anger and discomfort that they both felt toward things larger than they could bear

"I know the feeling, Granger." Draco pressed, willing himself not to bear his soul once more to the woman he feared he was growing too close to. "You might feel as though you've suffered at the hands of a villain, and you have, but I promise you, you are not alone."

They were both silent after Draco's statement and held each other's eyes for more than a moment. Draco worried that he'd made everything detrimentally worse, but the corner of Hermione's mouth quirked up at his statement and she blinked twice.

"What a lovely sentiment." She spoke, and Draco sighed contentedly, feeling the familiarity between the two return just a bit.

"I have them on occasion." He joked, his pride rising dramatically when she giggled, looking at him through her lashes. It made his heart flutter in a way he hadn't felt in years. Huh. That was new.

"Goodnight, Draco." With the statement that meant more than either was willing to acknowledge, Hermione stepped into the green flames, and just as quickly as she'd come into Draco's life, she was gone.

* * *

 _"And what are these?" Ginny thumbed through the stack of books on her table, and Hermione's eyes widened._

 _"Nothing! Well, research, really. For a side project." She amended, trying to act nonchalant._

 _"Right. A side project." Ginny repeated, eyeing the Malfoy family crest stamped onto the inside cover of the journal in her hands._


	16. Chapter 16

**Hi. Long time no see. How's the quarantine treating you? I lost my job. That was fun. I'm in college, so it was only part time, but I'll admit, I do miss the extra cash. But not my manager. She sucks.**

 **Anyway.**

 **Here's another long awaited update. I appreciate that at least some of you have stuck it out, and that I've found a few new of you along the way. As promised, I'm not giving this story up (because I have a really great future scene planned and I refuse to waste it), but the updating will be slow. Life and all that, yeah?**

 **Also, there was no proofing for this chapter so I could get it out as quickly as possible. Apologies for typos and bad wording.**

 **Love,**

 **Cherry**

* * *

Hermione had become something of a hermit in recent weeks, though she preferred to think of herself as a reclusive scholar. See, since her last visit to Malfoy Manor for Draco's final treatment, she'd entrenched herself in the books he'd allowed her to take, and it was with curiosity and excitement that Hermione had begun to piece together the history of Witch's Ganglion and its elusive nature that kept anyone from documenting it thoroughly. This research was what kept Hermione from venturing out of her home, save for travelling to and from work, where she secretly stowed away even more books that might help her research that she read during lunch. Her work didn't suffer, of course, and it was with ease and mild boredom that Hermione treated the odd bites and scratches wizards and witches whinged about to her every day.

Admittedly, despite the monotony in her routine, Hermione hadn't felt quite this alive in quite some time. She thrived under the stress that research brought her, and the desire to find the answer to something she didn't completely understand captivated her in a way that no patient (besides Draco's curious ailment, of course) could. Even her relationship with Ron - as much as she'd begun to romanticise it - paled in comparison to the mental stimulation her studies brought her.

So maybe, if she confessed to it, Hermione would admit she'd become a hermit. A happy hermit, but a hermit nonetheless.

"Honestly, Hermione, when was the last time you cleaned?" Ginny asked as she dusted herself off, stepping out of the fireplace. By the door, she looked for a free hook to hang her robes on; all were covered with various garments of Hermione's, ranging from outerwear to items that didn't need to be hung on a coat rack. She finally settled on moving the scarf to the hook with the gloves, and wedged her dark green robes in between two trench coats.

"Hm?" Hermione hummed, half listening to her friend's critique, though her eyes never left the diary she was reading (which detailed a wizard's trials and errors mixing Witch's Ganglion with other potion ingredients).

"Tuesday?" She finally answered with some hesitancy, knowing she might've meant last Tuesday or the Tuesday before.

"Hermione, it's _Saturday_." Ginny responded, gobsmacked. Hermione had never been the tidiest person, but she'd always been cleanest, and bits of dust clung to Ginny's fingers as she ran a hand across the mantle. She grimaced and flicked the dust away with a bit of help from a wandless spell.

"And?" Hermione asked, finally looking up from her book. "I know where everything is." She gestured to the room. "Garments near the door and in the bedroom, dishes in the sink, study materials on the kitchen table and...everywhere else." Hermione shrugged and sniffed, pulling the quill from behind her ear as she took notes.

"Yes you know where everything is, but that doesn't mean it's clean." With a flick of her wand, Ginny got the dishes cleaning themselves, and put her hands on her hips, much like her mother used to do. "And listen to you sniffle! All the dust in here has to be making you allergic!"

"I'm not allergic to anything." Hermione rolled her eyes and propped her knee up on the sofa while she leaned back, taking a deep breath. "See? No coughing, no sneezing, I'm all right!"

Ginny huffed, clearly disagreeing. "And look at you!" She continued. "How old are those pyjamas you're wearing? And when did you last wash your hair?" She continued to nitpick, partially out of bossiness she'd developed as a parent of small children, but partially out of worry for her friend. Ginny didn't see Hermione very often anymore, now that their monthly dinner dates were no longer monthly (and no longer dates), and with the books that were now strewn across the room had absorbed ninety percent of Hermione's attention. It was unhealthy, and it made Ginny fret. She'd seen Hermione do this before - replace human interaction with books - and if Ginny didn't pull Hermione from her reclusive, manic state, who would? She could barely do it now that she had a family, and that made her feel guilty, too. That she'd moved onto another phase of her life, one she thought Hermione would join soon, but instead, she'd reverted to her sixth year state; alone and unwilling to accept help. Ginny hated to think about the conversation she needed to have with Hermione before she left, and instead gave herself a more practical task of restoring everything to its rightful state.

"Go shower. Now." Ginny snapped, and Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry, when Molly Weasley get here?"

"Hermione Granger, you get off that couch and get into the shower!" Ginny didn't appreciate the retort, recognising her mother's behavior in her own, and rather than let it distract her (like Hermione had intended), Ginny used her irritation to fuel her behavior and ushered Hermione into the bathroom, where she pulled the shower handle all the way to hot and nearly pushed Hermione in fully clothed. While Hermione bathed, Ginny returned to the living room, rolled up her sleeves, and began pointing her wand at the dirty surfaces. While the filth cleaned itself, Ginny began consolidating the stacks of books, trying to determine which belonged to Hermione, and which she had borrowed from other sources.

She started with the books closest to the bookshelf, and when Ginny had sorted those, she moved to the coffee table and fireplace, continuing her tidying. Eventually, she heard the shower shut off, and the telltale shuffle of Hermione dragging her feet as she walked into her bedroom to get dressed.

"And don't just put on those wrinkled clothes again!" Ginny called out, receiving a quiet _"Yes, mum!"_ from the other side of the closed door. Ginny gritted her teeth a bit and cursed lightly under her breath, knowing that while she hated cleaning, she'd have to do it or no one else would.

When she finally moved to the kitchen table, Hermione emerged from the bedroom, hair wet, cheeks pink, and dressed in fresh joggers and a long sleeved shirt.

"It's about time, Princess, I've nearly finished cleaning _your_ mess." Ginny spoke, taking a moment to dramatically stretch. "You know, the only exercise I get nowadays is my retired Quidditch players league once per month, and that has little affect on the muscles compared to the thousands of pages you have in this room."

Hermione quirked her lip, a little proud of the pseudo-compliment, but instead of boasting, she apologised for her collection. "Not that it needed to be cleaned up," she pointed a finger to Ginny, "because I had them all in order, but I do appreciate your help."

Hermione's method of thanking Ginny was to put a kettle of tea on to heat while she scoured her cabinets for some sort of snack. She finally settled on an unopened box of chocolate biscuits, which Ginny was sure to love. While Hermione had her back turned to tend to the kettle on the stove, Ginny slowed her sorting of the books on the kitchen table, her hand passing over a tall column of books bound in expensive leather with intricate designs.

"And what are these?" Ginny thumbed through the stack of books on her table, and Hermione's eyes widened.

"Nothing! Well, research, really. For a side project." She amended, trying to act nonchalant.

"Right. A side project." Ginny repeated, eyeing the Malfoy family crest stamped onto the inside cover of the journal in her hands. "As in the side project where you're searching for Strawberry's Cure?" She didn't mention that she knew exactly where the books had come from, or ask Hermione why she had them, but instead moved onto a topic they could address without defensiveness, from either side.

"How did you know about that?" Hermione asked, pouring two cups of hot water into mugs. She set two bags of a spicy black tea into the mugs and let them steep while turned to speak to Ginny, leaning against the counter.

"Well, I've put away enough of your books, and journals, and manuals to find a common theme; they're all plant based, mostly focussing on Asia, and I was there when Luna told you about Strawberry's Cure."

"Right." Hermione nodded. "Well, I want to exhaust the concept before I move onto another. This is the most promising lead I've had in quite a while, and I'm enjoying the hunt for information, so," Hermione shrugged and checked the teas, removing the bags and setting them and the box of biscuits on the newly cleaned table. The pair sat and Ginny added sugar to her tea while Hermione just held her mug to keep her hands warm as she was shivering a bit from the shower.

"Has anything about it indicated you could make a cure with it?" Ginny asked, intrigued by the research, but mostly because she knew it would allow Hermione not to feel so restricted by her body as it existed now.

"Well there's definitely a quality of invisibility it carries." Hermione explained, her face lighting up as she shared her research. "It's very temporary, as in those qualities disappear as soon as it dries, but I've been looking into what it can be mixed with that will allow its invisibility to last longer. Perhaps Belladonna? It's used in cosmetics due to its longevity, so I'm searching for some record of mixing the two lest I blow up the hospital's potion room trying to mix two things that have never been mixed before." Hermione smiled and Ginny did too, happy to see that even if her friend was pulling away from everyone she knew, at least she was enjoying herself while doing it. Ginny's smile soured as she remembered why she'd come to visit Hermione in the first place, and she fidgeted in her seat.

"I'm sure you'll find the answer. You always do." Ginny spoke positively, but Hermione could see something was bothering her.  
"But...?" She asked, waiting for a negative response. Ginny but her lip and tried to weigh what to say next.

"It's nothing to do with this. I promise, I'm really happy for you. I think you're so very talented and knowledgeable, and if you could invent something to make cursed marks disappear, you'd be helping more people than just yourself." Both Ginny and Hermione's minds went to Draco, though for different reasons. Hermione saw the parallel between her and Draco, neither willing to show others the mark that identified them as less than those who walked around them. For Ginny...well, Ginny thought there might've been a budding friendship between the two, seeing as Draco was lending her books from his personal library and all.

"So what's happened, then? What aren't you telling me?" Hermione pressed Ginny for an answer, knowing it would be better to just get it over with now.

"I come bearing not so good news. About Ron." Ginny finally spoke plainly, discarding the chocolate biscuit she'd picked up at some point.

"Is he okay? He didn't get hurt, did he?" Hermione asked, her affection for Ron long but gone; she'd spent too many years with him to forget about him in a couple months.

"No he's not hurt, his skull's too thick to sustain any real damage." Ginny snorted, aware she was stalling.

"But...?" Hermione repeated, knowing there was something big Ginny wasn't saying.

"He's got a girlfriend." Ginny laced her fingers and set them on the table. "Kind of chuffed about it, too, but it's too fresh to be serious." She softened the delivery (or at least she hoped she did), not wanting to hurt her friend's feelings.

"Oh." Was all Hermione said initially, consuming the information. A girlfriend. That was unexpected. "Do I know her?"

Ginny made a face knowing that yes, Hermione did know Ron's new girlfriend, or rather, an old girlfriend.

"Yeah, it's Lavender." Ginny rushed the response, not particularly wanting to dwell on the subject. "Where did you buy these biscuits, Hermione? They're delicious." She changed the subject, but Hermione scrunched her nose and Ginny knew she hadn't changed the subject as smoothly as she'd hoped.

"Lavender." Hermione repeated, taking a sip of her tea. She bobbed her head, suspiciously calm for someone who had just been told their ex-fiancé was dating again. "Can't say I'm surprised, Lavender always had a way of fawning over Ron that went straight to his head."

Hermione had never known if Lavender had chosen Ron solely due to his rising popularity, or if she'd genuinely enjoyed some element of his presence. She'd never paid enough attention to their childhood romance to know much more than the fact that Lavender enjoyed attention, which Ron was the center of when they'd begun dating. No, Hermione had been rather preoccupied at that time with irritation for Ron's growing ego, and a bit of jealousy that he'd chosen to share that time of his life with anyone who would cheer him on, rather than his two friends who had always been there for him. And yes, if she were willing to admit it, Hermione had been a bit jealous because she'd wished Ron would look at her the way he looked at Lavender.

But bigger than that was his ego. Yes, Lavender had always known how to please Ron with her words, and if there was something he was searching for post-breakup, it was someone to make him feel better.

"I only told you because if you choose to leave your home or purchase a newspaper, you might find out. They were spotted together at a pub by the ministry."

"Right." Hermione drew the word out. "And my first concern upon seeing the two together would be to assume they're dating." There had to be more to the story, Hermione knew it. Ginny didn't want to have this conversation, so she wouldn't willingly force herself to unless something had happened.

"Well...they were...snogging...aggressively...so..." Ginny muttered and tore apart the biscuit in her hands until it was crumbles.

"Ah." Hermione nodded. "Yes, that's an indication. Did anyone ever tell the press we had split up?"

"I think that was the first indication." Ginny replied quickly. "But it should be clear now, no need to worry you'll have to release any statements."

"Right." Hermione nodded again, unable to do much more. Her brain was too busy processing that of all the witches Ron could have chosen, he had to choose the one that made Hermione look foolish. To go back to his first girlfriend only weeks after he'd broken up with his partner of eight years, it was an insult to Hermione's value.

But Ron didn't like being single. Hermione knew that, and maybe that's why she wasn't so angry or upset that he'd moved on.

"Okay." Hermione finished off her cup of tea. "Thank you for letting me know." She smiled tightly at Ginny in an attempt to reassure her, but Hermione could tell it didn't have that effect. It just seemed to make Ginny more worried. She seemed more angry than Hermione. Angry that her brother had ruined his chances with such an amazing woman like Hermione, angry that he squashed any chance of getting back with her by kissing another woman, and angry that he'd chosen Lavender of all people. Lavender was a dim-witted, boring, wily woman with not a single original thought. She was plain and dull compared to Hermione, and how Ron could manage to be attracted to both women was beyond her.

"How are you so calm?" Ginny finally asked, the question coming out loud and accusatory. Hermione raised an eyebrow at the response.

"What am I supposed to do? I'm the one who broke up with him. It wouldn't be right of me to be angry with him for moving on. Do I love that he's chosen Lavender? No, but Ron has a difficult time connecting with new people, so it makes sense that he's chosen to go back to something familiar."

"That's a nice way to talk about an absolute slag like Lavender." Ginny snorted and folded her arms.

"Ginny!" Hermione admonished. "That's an awfully cruel way to talk about someone you haven't spoken to in years."

"Well it seems I'm speaking for both of us right now, the way you're handling this." Ginny's voice raised.

"What, like an adult?" Hermione's voice grew louder as well, each trying to surpass the other's volume. "Like this news isn't going to break my very existence?"

"Like someone who isn't the slightest bit upset that they'll no longer be my sister!" Ginny felt tears well up behind her lashes and sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as an opportunity to covertly wipe away the wetness from the corners of her eyes.

"Oh, Gin." Hermione reached out and covered Ginny's hand with her. "I already consider you my sister. A marriage to Ron wouldn't have created that connection between us. I love you."

"I know." Ginny cleared her throat. "There's just a lot I expected to happen after you two being together for so long. You know, life events, family functions, raising our children together. It's just not going to happen now, is it?" She looked to Hermione hopefully.

"Not unless Ron or I change dramatically." Hermione shrugged.

"You know, Ron's not my only single brother." Ginny offered. "I have plenty more if you're willing."

"If you want me in the family so badly, you and Harry should just adopt me." Hermione squeezed Ginny's hand, knowing the hardest part of the conversation was over.

"I'll pass, thank you. Lecturing you to bathe was enough of a hint that you're a stubborn child I have no interest in raising." Ginny sniffled once and stood up. "Well, you're clean, fed, and this place has been tidied up. I think it's time I return home to relieve Harry of baby duty."

"Thank you for coming over." The two stood and hugged, and Hermione walked Ginny to the coat rack, where Ginny put her robes back on. "I did need to shower, and I'll admit, my things needed a bit of organising. Not the books, mind you, but the clutter."

"It all needed organising, you included." Ginny winked and hugged Hermione once more before saying goodbye and disapparating in a crack.

* * *

 _"I think I saw a copy over here." Hermione rounded the corner, the smile tugging at the corner of her lips dropping as her eyes met a familiar pair. "Ronald."_

 _Redness crawled up the man's neck, painting the tips of his ears. "Hermione." He greeted her with a nod. "Fancy seeing you here."_

 _"It's a bookshop, Weaslebee." Draco sidled around the shelf, one eyebrow raised. "I'd say you're more out of place here than Granger."_


End file.
